Along the ditch line corpses
raise bare arms
to the ghost of sun to early gone.
Night comes swift and cruel,
light bleeding from a sky
that falls down from blue to indigo
and burnished gold.
Old dragons gather by the wall
breeding fire and blowing flames.
Stamping feet on hard ground.
A barrel sending smoke and sparks
to winter gods in hope of warmth.
But gods are cruel to city poor and destitute
Cheeks clawed raw red and tight
by gathering night
landing fast to claim the last light.
Lungs pull long and hard
on air sharp as tacks
and its early yet. This night will be
a brassic bitch
for the souls camped along the ditch
A radio in the distance
plays a jingle of Christmas
germinate in children’s minds
But those here feel
only fear and hate
for closed shops and cafes
no gifts of crumbs when Christ comes
no heat from closed down vents
no miracles of virgin birth.
Cold is a killer on the ditch
a stone bitch
that robs blood and breath and yet
for some here death
is a cut above
is a last spin
on a losers wheel fortune.
© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com