I leave the station on the hill

Going with the flow

A shoal of bodies

Weaving

Winding

In unison to avoid the net

Some like spawning Salmon

Fight the expulsed tide

By going up stream

 

 Jehovah’s witnesses

Standing battle ready

Disconsolate

Waiting, daring anybody to accept

The proffered hand

Holding a magazine

A book

Designed to bring belief

 

The tide washes past

Black sleeping bags

Bodies bagged up in foetal form

Splayed out like great ragged

Immovable

Immutable

Dark rocks

On the edge of the pavement

On the edge of life

No written sign

Saying do not disturb

But nobody will

They become a part

Of the landscape

Of the fast flowing tide

 

Not wanting to be ignored

Some have sat up

To greet a brand new day

The sleep of life still encrusted

On breath and face

Their expressions implacably

Static pleading

Dry lips move

But barely a sound uttered out 

The cherished empty paper coffee cup

Saying 

SHOUTING

Above the crowd

All there is to say

Any change please for a cup of tea

 

Occasional wheeled bags

Clatter, clack and spin

As others expel

From budget price hotel

Still the tide goes on

Past Piccadilly gardens

Crossing tram tracks and cars

Past news vendors and

Half way down Market Street

Before it begins to thin

 

Enter in to the early hours

Of St Anne’s square

Where shops and people are still waking

Brushing down, shaking

Waiting in anticipation

For the start of day

No buskers, no callers

No coffee sipping crawlers

Just the odd person

Moving gently

Gliding across the square

Late for the office

Heading for Deans gate

And out once again

 On to the fast moving street