DECISIONS

By Peter Woodgate

Strolling through Romford Market

on a Saturday afternoon

a woman sings amongst the crowd

alas, she’s not in tune.

It’s then I spy, a wistful lad

ensconced outside a closed shop door,

laid out, in front, a cap, to beg?

His clothes are ragged, is he poor?

And by his side a dog, he’s cute

Man’s best friend, a faithful pet?

Or an aid, to raise some loot?

A cynical thought, selfish, and yet,

This world is full of those that cheat

and take advantage of each thought,

rely on us, our conscience pierced

to take the action that we ought.

A passer-by has seen before,

this lad, calls him an immigrant,

“go back to where you have come from,

not welcome here,” you hear him grunt.

A woman who has witnessed this,

Reveals a smirk, etched on her face,

it’s obvious, she does agree,

he should be in another place.

I look into the beggar’s eyes

he smiles, but there is sadness deep

within his thoughts, somehow revealed,

the sort depriving me of sleep.

I then decide, “oh what the Hell”

A bit of change, it’s nowt to me.

I throw it in the cap and find,

no more decisions, I am free

I wander through the market stalls

I’m happy now, my conscience clear,

no need to debate the £2 given

for I’m off to the pub and having a beer (or two).

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate