Ever wondered why homeless people do not beg by the church?
If I was homeless, I would get some paper from WH Smith
and tear it up into strips.
I would put it in the basket by the church entrance
and ask people to write down their prayers.
I would beg for their prayers to be answered.
I would beg more fervently than Father Alan.
But no, I am not allowed to sit there.
Just as well, cause the porch is windy,
The gate is heavy,
and the church goers are weighted down by guilt.
They whisper in my ear: ‘pray for my mother, my brother, my child’
The gale whistles and lifts up the scraps,
Upwards and downwards they float little boats of hope:
‘Please help me find my soul cause it’s wandering.’
Not a migrant 