Few birds are moving amongst the trees
and in the distant playground children are singing,
in a tune of melancholy,
to things that they can't see.
The path is well trodden.
In the rain, sullen weeds bow their heads
and weep onto the ground.
Everything outside is drooping and sodden,
and from the road there is no sound.
Beyond the school and down the lane
the trees and bushes give shelter
from the angry hordes of the homeless and hungry.
And they hide this small refuge,
safely behind the fence,
away from the streets and the rest of the mess.
Behind the fence the people look up, and
knowing about you they can relax.
Another day and nobody has found them.
Another day without food tax.
These people can laugh, a little,
and talk a little,
and live a lot,
Their hands work in the soil,
it is a work of love, not a toil.
It is their seeds that are growing,
their hopes which are knowing
a way to live in this angry, quiet world.
The road beyond is quiet but Old John
can remember when the cars roared there.
Now there is nothing
but a group of old ladies walking
carefully in fear.
They too come to the lane,
and to our gardens, even in the rain.
Down quiet faces their tears are stinging,
but oh! To hear the children singing.