Sunday, 19 June 2016


Image courtesy of Pixabay  free use


Not for him the comfort
of a warm, cosy hearth
on a chill autumn night..
rather the deceitful friendship
of a cheap flagon
unopened - full of promise
emptied - full of nothing.

Few were his hopes, or wishes
or dreams.
Cold wet grass doesn't lead
to aspirations
or thoughts of grandeur..
rather to chilblains
and eternal desolation.

Tinned soup, cold,
his daily sustenance
at least for the first few days
after the fortnightly pension
and then -
whatever he could scrounge 
wherever he could find it.

The report was stark,
brutal, horrifying..
It came with our morning cuppa
we read it
shook our heads
and turned the page.

(c) Crissouli May 22, 1984


  1. Sobering, was my first thought..perhaps an unfortunate one.

  2. I wrote this when the headlines were full of inane things one day... and a small headline was at the end of a column, aftrer a social event was reported... Wish I'd kept the clipping... I was so angry and upset for days.
    I never did see his name.


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