He prowled the
dirty streets, cold & very hungry,
The old vagabond,
ignored by one & all & sundry,
Shuffling in unlaced
boots & a ragged old grey coat,
No bread in his
belly & only moonshine in his throat.
He passes warm
lighted cafés, restaurants & bistros,
Cooking aromas
cruelly assaulting red dripping nose,
Hot coffee, spices,
herbs & those of hot sizzling meat,
With empty belly, on he plods with cold hungry
beat.
Newly baked &
fragrant cakes & freshly made bread,
Visions of his
fed past dance through his empty head,
Mouth watering,
yet his lips are cracked & so very dry,
Tantalising aromas,
memories running from empty eye.
He ambles without
purpose down hard, grey city streets,
Sniffing aromas,
savoury, hot, tart, spicy & sugary sweet,
He didn’t mind
cold solitude, nor the alms he had to take,
But he wept at the memory of the pie his Ma used
to make.
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