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Title : To Weather Seasons Such As These.
link : To Weather Seasons Such As These.
To Weather Seasons Such As These.
One is the recent case of a man dying in a carpark in Glasgow in sub-zero temperatures, the other a man dies in the job centre after being told he is fit for work. What kind of society can tolerate this inhumanity? these are not isolated cases. Deaths from the cruelty of the universal credit system runs into thousands, deaths among the homeless runs into hundreds. These are not accidents, these are the result of deliberate policies legislated by people with lots of money and in most cases at least two homes, our political ballerinas. all of them well shielded from the ravages of their ideological policies.
William Shakespeare's words from "Seasons Such As These" are probably very apt for our times as they were in his:
Poor naked wretches, wherese're you are
that hide the pelting of this pityless storm,
how shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
from seasons such as these.
Homelessness is not a failing of the individual, it is the abject failure of the system we tolerate, but for how much longer, for how many more avoidable deaths?
The Warmth Of A dream.
He lay in a dark doorway, dreamed of home,
night frost locked his joints
morning rain chilled the marrow of his bone.
In the dream there was a sister,
a pram in a garden, a crowd of youngsters
who called him “mister”, a time of little pain.
Are these youngsters the same young men, who
now laugh at him, throw beer cans,
piss on him as he lies drunk in some dark lane?
When was that first step down this slippery slope,
when was that first step to no forgiveness.
No will to rise to beg for food,
numbness kills the pain.
The dream brings a warmth that feels good,
dark fog shades out consciousness,
an ambulance carries off a body washed in rain.
night frost locked his joints
morning rain chilled the marrow of his bone.
In the dream there was a sister,
a pram in a garden, a crowd of youngsters
who called him “mister”, a time of little pain.
Are these youngsters the same young men, who
now laugh at him, throw beer cans,
piss on him as he lies drunk in some dark lane?
When was that first step down this slippery slope,
when was that first step to no forgiveness.
No will to rise to beg for food,
numbness kills the pain.
The dream brings a warmth that feels good,
dark fog shades out consciousness,
an ambulance carries off a body washed in rain.
Visit ann arky's home at https://radicalglasgow.me.uk
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