(Don’t Have) a Winter Heart
 
Snow covers the imperfection,
coats the landscape with beauty;
And sets off glittering lights
as they bounce off icy fragments.
The sky turns pink and gradually blocks the blue.
Oh, such wonder in a desolate place!
 
Elsewhere, men and women warm theirs hands
on fire flickering from an oil drum.
A provocative music of cracking wood
transcends their lost voices
and their groans are carried away in the wind.
 
The over-hanging doorway has become a refuge.
Empty cartons and empty packets lay strewn on dirty pavements -
now covered by slush and water
causing passers-by to move quickly on the slippery surface.
Oh, how they slip and slide!
 
Old men are huddled together under make-shift canopies of thrown-out tents.
Damp blankets provide a barrier to the chilling currents of cold air
and their plaintive sighs waft in the midnight freeze.
The street lamp does not offer hope or guide their way,
for Desperation and Rejection linger.
Oh, how they seek but do not find!
 
A good man takes their pain to his heart...and he offers whatever he can:
a few coins to dissatisfy the latest craving – whatever it might be!
How they long for freedom! A breaking of hidden chains,
a discarding of a cracking mask -
as their invisibility shouts at the consciences of all…
all but the captives, for they have winter hearts.
Oh, how they hurt!
 
And the snow covers everything beautifully -
hides every sorrowful sight and makes even rubbish look a million dollars.
It makes us cry with sheer delight.
Oh, sugar-coated wonders of life, now dusted with frozen particles of white coldness.
 
Our hearts freeze with hardness.
Our eyes close against the invading icy air.
Our hands tighten and clench to retain our inner heat.
Our ears turn away from the eerie blasts of gusting winds of woe.
Our feet pace quickly to reach a place of refuge – a roaring fire in home, sweet home.
 
As we close hard the door and turn the key, we think we are safe.
We peer out at the still-falling flakes of snow
watching them drift softly to the ground.
Such a wonderland, from inside our palaces and castles!
 
The oil drum still burns. The lost ones still yearn.
The minds and consciences still churn.
And our hearts...still turn away, for we are oh so cold.
 
The Forgotten still long to be remembered.
But the whiteness is so bright that we unkindly block them out.
Everything is beautifully hidden from our sight for another short spell,
as evening draws in and darkness overpowers the light.
 
JulieHughes(C) 2019