The Heart is Forever Hopeful

Considering the cold.

Image Credit: 
Public Domain

Beach walk, life
when it’s cold, it’s cold.
The wind whistles through
the gullies of our gills,

like the sun, the wind,
has the power
to whip the body
into submission.

It must be hard,
living on the streets
in a tent, in a park.
Where have we put

our softness, our funny
bone, that thing
we call heart?
It dangles over the places

of spending and relaxing
like piped music.
Those ups and downs,
the Tesco trolley filling up.

Does it feed us?
Grabbing at something
and something
and something.

Does it need us?
We go down the umbilical cord
the tramline, the tube.
Whatever way we go

the tide goes out,
the tide comes in.
Water can be vicious,
we need oily wool

to cover over us.
Are we taking
this from somebody?
We are reaping those rewards now.

It is a life or death
feeling at times.
Am I getting it right?
Does anyone know?

Jane Hart is a painter and maker of assemblages and writer. She is also a counsellor working with children and adults.

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