On the run

On the run, on the moors

Can’t do it anymore

Physical, mental, punishing

Cold, foggy, grass glistening

Breath in front of face

All that empty space

Impossible to feel fingers

Biting frost lingers

Unwanted, unmissed, worn

Clothes in a state, all torn

Return to home in woods

Between bushes near a brook

Sleeping bag hung to dry

Out of the regard of others eyes

Tins of beans all to eat

Would kill for some meat

Surrounded by branches and dead leaves

This luck he would never of believed

Solitude, loneliness all he knows

Rejected waster, way it goes

Living this each and every day

Months now, this his only way

Been attacked, spat on, urinated on too

Drunken men, nothing better to do

He’ll take, steal do what it takes

No choice now, life at stake

Feel sorry for him for where he is now?

He manages, we wonder how.

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Phil lister 01/11/17

listerspoetry@gmail.com

Picture: pixabay