I thought I might share a poem with you from my book that I wrote about the homeless.

'Under the Great Gates of the Bank of Ireland'

What age are those feet under that blanket?
They look so young
And the stench of urine that surrounds them
It sickens my stomach.
I should stay here to feel what real pain is,
Real Loss.
Real Dysfunction.
The ground must be cold and hard even with an extra sleeping bag underneath him...
And boxes to sleep on.
Whose child is this?
No Mother to care?
Only the others like him...
They bring the hot tea, a sandwich to share.
Then the other stuff and tin foil.
All their faces weathered red and sleepy heads,
Teeth not good.
Faces so young, so old.
So grateful for anything.
The boy loves hot chocolate with five spoons of sugar.
'Thanks Love,
God Bless You."


By Jean Murray