My latest poem

The Willow Child

Stick-thin, blond-haired the freckled waif

A stray gust of wind threatened to crush,

Dusty, wasteland grey, soot baked streets,
Terracotta walls: rusty metal bars held us together.

Every breath a struggle for urban life.
Crippled the frail form, clothes and skin
Gripped gaunt his frame, lips stained blue

By lack of air breathe the urban strife.

Life dished out in compartments:
Inhale this, swallow these. 
Pills’ magic medicine kept life contained.
A half-corpse child played in sheltered doorway.

Street people pitied the child brought 

Conkers, bottles of barley water.
Spent days in hospital, attendance

Greater than at school.

Freedom in Woodvale Park whilst 

Siblings captured grasshoppers.

Irony wasn’t lost on the waif as he

Sat on the swings, one sock pulled up.

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