Grey winter skies
Greeted him today
Yet undaunted he
Emerged from the
Thick but tattered
Quilt that covered
His frail frame and
Sat on the bench
At the city bus stop
His shelter for years
From the vagaries
Of the weather
Taking water from
A flat glass bottle
Hidden under his
Meagre belongings
He splashed some
On his face and sipped
A few drops to moisten
His dry throat before
Making his way to
The roadside tea shop
For his morning cuppa
This has been his
Routine for years
I watched him for
Perhaps the nth time
As he sipped the tea
With great relish
Warming his cold
Hands on the mug and
I wondered whether
The New Year meant
Anything to him or
Held any hope for him
And finally why such folk
Stay on in such a difficult
Uncaring and cold city.....
