Poem- Pot Kettle But Who Gives back?

To the Wells, biker-jacket man, who sits and takes shelter under the alms archway and all of those who may have chosen to pass him by.

A chocolate brownie from me to you.

To fill your loss with hopes anew.

Your winters breath,

upon alms bench.

Calls out to claim,

desolations stench.

A coffee, a smile,

little to live.

But a moments strength,

it may possibly give.

A nod across, my space, to yours.

To sooth passed footsteps, upon cold floors.

Too easy for one, on a pedestal cloth.

To judge who you are and what you are not.

Wondering if what-could possibly drive,

this shadow of hurt

and shame to your eyes.

Preventing you meeting,

eyes to a face,

You fear may reflect,

your perceived own disgrace.

Sugars times two, may sweeten the taste.

Though gone, all too soon,

perhaps not a waste.

Meagre hope I wish,

to fill up your cap.

That True spirit of Wells,

could be sup from her tap.

History trickling,

through the veins of her streets.

The lifeblood of legends,

to strengthen the weak.

I see that your I’s

beaten down

by life’s drum.

And led you to beliefs,

That this is where you belong.

Though your shadow hides,

within the valley of loss,

There are those, who are willing,

to help carry your cross.

If the will moves from you,

to hope, beyond pity.

You’ll find love and support,

still walks in this city.

In your alchemist jacket of white, black and red,

Let the white well of Bridget,

Wash clean through your head.

More than just coffee,

The people will bring.

Filling your cap,

with change from the spring.

We all at a time,


the lost child’s song.

Arms crying to be held,

in a place we belong.

Moments when,

we’ve been cast down by shame.

Quiet fears that still whisper,

we’re the ‘only’ to blame.

Times when we all,

have spent more than we should.

Decisions made blind,

that led to no good.

As children we climb,

hoping never to fall.

Yet still end up in trouble,

our ‘own’ jacket,

to the wall.

Who knows what truth,

our tomorrows will bring.

Will it be I sitting here,

nursing my wing.

Would it be I turning,

to you,

in hope of support?

A guide in the dark,

through this veil of self wrought.

Someone to shelter,

Who keeps the soul warm.

Held safe, against wondering,

where the path,

diverted wrong.

Just a sliding door,

could lead I,

into you.

Muttering thanks for a coffee.

A brownie or two.

Wondering how, I got lost,

within this treacherous game.

In a world that will fool you,

with a measly name.

So my brother don’t fear,

as I look to your eyes.

And offer a rope,

to where your hope lies.

And call to your neighbours,

to all do the same.

As its bitter outside

and the grave whispers,

your name.

May I remember to treat those,

as i wish to be seen.

And love you, my brother,

so we can all be washed clean.

The dirt creeps with fear,

mistrust and spent hope.

Let none be left hanging,

from mistakes chosen rope.

Then perhaps,

may one day,

your own footsteps will tred.

Pass this alms,

in the cold,

and someone else,

holding dread.

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