The Lost Tribe
An hour has past since the very last
train has ended its passage
through the cavernous hollows
beneath sleeping Londoners.
No passengers north or southward bound;
there is no movement on the London Underground.
So, I hastily make my way towards the Embankment,
thinking it prudent of me
not to waste hard-earned money on a taxi.
To catch the late-night bus was my intent.
Big Ben bellows announcing the hour of two.
Street light yellows shadowy pavements
with eerie shapes tattoo,
distorted images akin to ghoulish apparition.
Thin, penetrating drizzle a continuous sheet
descends from dark skies in patriotic tradition.
There is no hint that the shower will abate.
I tighten my collar against the sleet and the damp
that is so eager to soak and penetrate;
quickening my pace as I cross the street.
I hurry along making my way to the river-bank,
passing through the back streets of Charring Cross Station,
to board the bus and take shelter from the wind, the wet, the dank.
It will take me to the warmth of my house,
to my sleeping family. Salvation!
I glance at my watch, it is twelve past two,
a little while yet before the bus is due.
Rounding the corner of Villiers, I cross a small square;
I have reached my destination, though the bus is not yet there.
I look around me and take in an appalling sight:
on the kerb-side there’s a kitchen-on-wheels
doling out soup to hungry individuals and to those in plight.
Rooted to where I stand, unable my breath to renew,
open-eyed I stare without a blink,
hearing the soup ladle clink,
summoning the next person forward in this morbid queue.
The rain, meanwhile, continues to drench
these sorry individuals, yet none of them flinch
as they shuffle in their orderly line, inch by inch.
It is impossible in words to portray this tribe.
Words have not yet been thought of that could describe
their expression of sadness, the depth of their pain;
the impression of madness on people otherwise sane.
As a group they look tragic, as individuals, demonic.
Strange fruit that nature has played a trick upon,
creating expressions not described in any lexicon.
Their eyes dimmed by sorrow and melancholy,
as though life’s inky bile they were forced to swallow.
They stare at me.
Who are they? Where is their abode?
Did they crawl out from some deep hollow?
Where do they stay? What is their life’s code?
What profession do they follow?
No doubt some are prostitute, alcoholic or thief.
But all are destitute, pathetic and filled with grief.
Riveted I stand feeling helplessly inadequate.
Trembling of hand, though I witness I cannot equate.
This sadness of heart is beyond comprehension.
Yet, they form part of our society.
While we plunder through life in our selfish mission,
with hardened souls and pretentious piety.
The bus arrived and broke off my concentration
which had held me like a rivet.
Towards it I dived turning my back to this delegation
whose plight I forsook when they so needed a prophet.
I ignored on my heart’s door this desperate knock,
and hurried off home to my less needy but legitimate flock.
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