As We Lay Dreaming

cleaning the streets every day through the year
of the filth and the muck and the holiday cheer
left over by people with far more to do
than pick up for themselves, for me or for you.

"But some things that I find I can never quite clean
and no broom and no mop and no dustpan have been
near the filth, as they call it,
and they are appalled that
these people (they struggle enough with the thought
that some others don't have the life they have bought)
these people could live in such squalor, putrescence
the rich and elite simply can't grok the essence
of life when you don't have it handed your way
or your fat silver spoon has just rusted away.

"And the things that you hear
(this ain't Mulberry Street, but the odd bit of talk
is quite unlike what I have heard as I walk
through the streets of the poor
or the young
or from hungering tongue)
And the things that you hear from those sworn to protect,
from authority, given such power, elect
to ignore the cries of the damned
deny the safe passage of those who demand
in their natural right
a life and a choice instead of the plight
they wake up to each day, wings removed lest their flight
should attempt to ameliorate their birthright.

"Take this girl and that, whose father has left
whose mother is somewhere from her children cleft
and they've no place to go
not a blanket or cot and with nothing to show
for the life they must make for themselves every day
with the handouts and pity
from those in the city with something to give
and in order to live they abandon their shame
and they try to proclaim t'any bloke with a buck
or a half (and you that the latter's their luck)
that he never will find such a fine piece of lass
if he walks all the streets, nor at high Sunday mass
(and the priest at the church wouldn't have her kind in
on a Sunday because of the depth of her sin)
and he shrugs and continues, blocking the din
of the poor and the homeless and hungering throng
and the ones who are charged with righting the wrong
are all so safe and sound in their somnolence born
their chances abound, not a turbulent morn
awaits any who bear this girl (and that) such scorn.

"And this is the boy," he says to me, walking
and in a dank alley I see a crowd talking
and one turns our way, and no older than ten
he says "What have you got for all here in the fen?"
And I would not so call it, for fens have some feature-
heat, fuel or some food, to sustain such a creature
as I find here living, three to a cot
four to a loaf and five to a pot
of some runny, brown stew that cannot be much more than waste from the loo.

This boy, I find out, is fifteen years old
and body so stunted - starvation and cold.
No parents has he, nor much family living
but those he calls Fen-boys who are quite forgiving
of his wretched stench (as they have it too)
for money is scarce; "can't buy bread, and soap too."

He won't see the end of this year if he stays
in the festering boil he has known all these days.
He will die and be buried, his body neglected
by all but the worms and the bugs; dejected
is he, but accepted his fate; the decree
from the Fates, fast-sealed by her hand, says that he cannot be
what he wishes he were to a mother or father who would not now stir
if you went to their graves and dug 'til you got
to their bodies - what's left - some bones, mostly rot.

For with this girl (and that) he was left to that place
where I found him that day. And I look on his face
for as long as I can and I prod and I search
through this weak head of mine for some help — and a lurch
passes through him, convulsing with hands
on his stomach, face paler than death as he stands
and now falls to the stones at his feet with his body first shaking
now quaking, death facing. His spirit is breaking
as, reaching for breath not for him, he gives one final gasp,
his hands now removed from the stomach they failed and they clasp
finally, as his body falls back with a thud
then a splash as he lays in the mud
he had slept in so long
and around him the throng
who could see
where they'd be
if they didn't get out
and they look on me now, as the sweeper bends down
picking up the young man from toe to his crown
and they look on me now as I struggle to say
something useful for them to remember this day
and the boy who has left them to Fate's deathly hand
and they look on me now as I struggle to do
what we all know will have to, at some point, come true
or the lot of them, all of the young and the old,
will join their old friend in an ending so cold
and they look on me now as I struggle to give
something useful to them. Each stomach's a sieve
and they'd eat for a week
both the strong and the weak
if they had but a loaf and a fish they could keep
and they look on me now, and I do not know
what can help them escape, what can help them to break
from the hand of the Fate that will see them all go
where their broken friend is.
and they look on me now and one takes my hand and says
"Come now, old man, and show me a place
with some food for my face
and a bed for my head and a mum and a dad
for I've not been so bad
that I've earned what I've got.
Come now, old man, and show me a time
where it don't cost a dime
and the slacks have no holes and the shoes have thick soles
and it's warm and it's nice;
all that would suffice for the rest of my life.
Come now, old man, and show me a lass
who is born of my class
and we'll sit and we'll talk, I'll be smit and we'll walk
and I'll bid her good day and come back here and stay
all the rest of my life."

And I look on this boy
who does not ask for much, not a toy
not a silvery spoon, not the world
but some food and some clothes, no riches unfurled
but a place he can sleep far from chimney's he'll sweep
and a girl he can look on and smile and get hooked on.
Not much is he asking; not much, but he's basking
in hope and in dreaming of yesterdays past.
In his eyes was the hope that he'd do more than cope
but replaced has it been with the dust from the bin
of a fat rich man's house.
Not hope, resignation, at his lowly station
and what will befall all who have this same call.