The ashtray streets sit empty,

idle,

gentrification shuttered

in abandoned alcoves,

anaemic grass trembling

towards the sun

from piss damp soil,

while the high street ghosts

find dry beds, fresh towels

and mandated generosity,

handed out by

cautious masks

and gloves

and flinching fingertips,

to those who slept

in dead angles,

grounded by sheets,

covered only by

the thin veil of charity,

warmed only by

the bitter taste of hoarded dog-ends.

There is a chance for more change

than can fill their paper cups,

but our hopes will dash against the rocks,

drown in oil futures and

suffocate under eviction’s weight,

stubbed out against the pavement,

as their embers wisp away.

Just two men slept rough

in the shivering heart of Cardiff

not two weeks ago,

and in the dull, grey dawn

of our hopeful tomorrow

all those who knew shelter, briefly,

will kiss the gutters goodnight again.

Brake lights in the dark

are all that keep me going

as the wipers clear the rain,

rhythmic like a heartbeat,

and the rows of trees loom

over the street

like reapers.

A thirty-minute drive

seems to last a life time,

to save a life,

or two, or three.

Maybe a whole family.

At least the lights

glow in the night,

fluorescent reflections,

hope in embers,

better than the sterile room,

the people pacing

in a quiet building and

the smell of fear.

It’s all okay in the end,

(for us following at least),

seats all filled,

driving home

after a few days on the mend,

glad to leave the hospital,

go back to almost normal,

but no one leaves

the automatic doors

without a burden,

because life and death

can be equally heavy,

and you will never

know someone

enough to be ready.