Death of a Vagrant

Death of a Vagrant I am your mother, hold out your hand Trace the lines of fate, tragic, pre-planned You’re exhausted and empty, tired and cold Fingers yellow with smoke, clothes smell of mould, Frail body so white, with face so tanned Begging for scraps, the life of the damned You do not judge, but are cruelly measured Your memories of her, still secretly treasured Now I am here, it is time to go I am your mother You grew up fast, you grew up strong Your head held high, your stride long, How you have changed, my son, now sadly reviled Hold on tight now - my lost and found child I am here to take you to home. I am your mother. Melinda Harris June 2009