Cold comfort

Alone, round the back of the row of shops
a youngster sits on a crate, head in hands.
I shout hello, want him to know I’m there.
Raising his head, he puzzles then smiles.
On the meadow blackbirds stab worms,
crows gather against the dusk.

At the bottom of the hill the beech trees bud,
Laughter and songs tumble from a hidden camp.
Blue plastic hangs from branches, makes a cosy den.
Lonely in lockdown, teenagers find a safe refuge.
Sunset goldens the field as I find a different path.

 

 

 

Finola Scott
Illustration Nick Victor


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