Tourists take snaps in the
gateway;
they don’t see him,
the man down there
on the stony ground,
cross-legged;
his big grey coat, woolly
hat, crusty eyes,
a few coins on a cloth in
front.
They don’t see,
their gaze doesn’t lower to
him.
They all raise their eyes
to the Cathedral arch.
I walk into their shot,
to drop a coin on his cloth.
Will they notice him now,
this new beggar in the
Penniless Porch?
Now that their picture is
marred?
Or will they Photoshop us out,
so we don’t spoil the view?
From the bustling market
the scents of food drift --
hot spices, chocolate, herbs
and
box after box of new rosy apples.
Stalls full of trinkets for
the well-off
glint in cold sunshine.
A woman crouches on a low stool,
her hands held out.
The brown, cracked skin of
her arms,
huge skirts gathered round
her ankles.
She mutters unknowable words
as she shakes her little bag
of coins,
her open mouth showing
missing teeth.
But they don’t hear her sad
call,
those who pass by.
And there’s a man outside the
shoe shop
– lowest price £69 a pair, on sale.
He hopes for a few spare
coins;
and maybe a pair of cheap
boots for winter.
He moves from foot to foot,
his quiet dance fighting the
cold.
But they don’t see the rhythm
of his steps,
those who pass by.
Who notices?
These three grey people,
overlooked in the bright melee
of the lush harvest-time
market day.
This, in England’s smallest
city,
where the rich take photos,
but they do not see,
and the camera always lies.
(Penniless Porch, Wells, revisited 12.10.13
read at The Cellar Bards,
29.11.13)
