As arctic breeze whips over lea,

I sit in peace on slatted bench

and sadly greet odd company –

a stooped and withered unkempt wench.

‘Spare a pound for a feed,

a bag of chips or sandwich pack?’

To impassioned plea I pay no heed.

In arrogance I turn my back.


‘Don’t leave me be, no one will help.

A silver coin?’ she did implore,

in voice as shrill as canine yelp.

’Twas then I knew she’d begged before.


I handed her just fifty pence;

withholding pain and sorrow.

What next I said made little sense:

‘I’ll give you more, tomorrow.’


The sun set late on that next day,

as she sidled to the slatted seat.

Dishevelled clothes, hair matted grey;

no cov’ring on her dirty feet.

A genuine and heartfelt case,

of loneliness and desperate need.

Is that the future I might face?

Is she the herald I should heed?


Discarded by society –  

left at night on bench to freeze.

I look at her and think of me,

then to the sky I say: ‘God, please,

did she ever flout your rules?

’cause not has she fared quite so well;

abused and left by ruthless fools?’

Behind me chimes the abbey bell.


In unison we glance around.

Was bell’s toll forewarning sign?

To her I point, my eyes to ground,

‘You go your way. I’ll go mine.’

Paige Elizabeth Turner
Paige writes across a variety of genres, but prefers to concentrate on her crime / mystery series featuring Private Investigator Olivia Watts and her Watts Happening? Investigations agency. Also dabbling in poetry, Paige produces emotive verse from romance through to environmental issues. Writing is her lifeblood, but as experienced by many writers, there’s a shortfall of financial nutrients feeding the blood.

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