Author: Markey Mark Symmonds

3am in the morning and i am yawning my bed is calling and I am sprawling,
the lark starts the chorus off. birds tweet, tweet then there are sheep that bleat, the woodpecker too and the bark of the fox and a badger or two.

Off to bed on my weary legs after I have drank down my coffee dregs. I rest my head in sot white pillows, what’s in my head no one knows.

I feel warm down to my toes and even my nose dips under the bed clothes. into sleep very deep and not a peep do I make for no one else do I want to wake.

Cats and dogs and birds and rain what a din they make again. I wake very late and pontificate about the merits of staying up late.

There is nothing worse on your way home than miles upon miles of traffic cones. All standing to attention in line making your journey take more time. Flashing orange upon their head, the sight of queues we all dread.

Motorway signs flash in time to tell us all to get in line and we all sit and cuss and whine. A dance a movement a mass exodus tail lights blazing in red decadence. Behind the cones no man or woman goes but still the signs above still flash slow. The obedient line waiting to go like cars on the start line of a grand prix waiting for the signal for go to show.

Cold and wet as I have been set in this one place for nearly a day. Watching adults pass and children play. Hunger in my belly, feet infected and smelly.

By night I am hidden by day I am I am forbidden. Lazy, ill. waste of space as everyone passes at a fair pace. But some stop and give money or food, others abuse and spit in your face.

I was once like you, before I lived on the street with a hole in my shoe. I was once a passer-by who never stopping to wonder why. Now I live from day to day for my misfortune I must pay. Constantly looking for a place to stay.

My drink helps me numb the pain so I don’t have to think again. It stops the hunger for most of the day and helps me to sleep where I lay hoping I will open my eyes on a new day.

So, move me on if you want so I don’t show on your doorstep but I will be there where ever you are sleeping on the pavement or in a car. Give me not money or food but give me a chance to live in your neighbourhood.

This is my island full of hope and life. This is the land where I grew up and took a wife.

This is my England of Green and pleasant fields and land where crops grow for food yield. An England where people love and care and heroes dare.

This is my country of which I am proud, my country with a diverse crowd. This is the place I call home, not far from it do I roam.

Yet this is an island of hate and venom, where people want to hurt and maim. This is where we fight and argue this where we forget about me and you.

This is the island on which I live a place where we love and give. This is the place where I shall die and for the rest of my days my body will lie.

Come here carer into my lair. To move me to bed from this God awful chair, help me undress I feel such a mess.

Light fades into the dark, the streetlights dim on the edge of the park. Alone with my thoughts and demons and devil’s; I watch the lights racing past as people go about their business blinkered and fast.

I scream out in pain in the dead of night, so loud the devil gets a fright. My carer comes running and flicks on the light with a big cup of tea and tablets for the pain, it takes ages to subside but it’s all in Vien.

She huddles in the dark in that God forsaken chair, crumpled and weiry with a fixed stare. No noise she makes but hopes in the morning I will awake once again.

Awake with the lark and the receding dark birds spring to life on the edge of the park. She is still in my lair all crumpled and with scented hair; still fast asleep in my chair. I wish I was gone and not really there.

I feel her burden, her pain and her anxst. She wakes with a stir and her head full of dread, is she hoping that maybe I’m dead. Her eyes are wet with tears and sweat.

I feel her pain of routine again and again, no freedom no gain, I’m such a drain. A million things go through her head but all the time I’m still in bed.

I love her so much she is my crurtch.Always there in my hour of need to do any job or deed. She is my carer my life support home grown who nobody taught; full of emotions and thought hidden inside never let out wide.

When I’m alone I many times have cried for the both of us have burdens to hide. Oh in the night I wish I had died.

Tumbling bumbling rolling along a bottle of beer and a song. Stager to the take away order a kebab if you may.  Salad and mayo and lots of meat all placed in pitta all proper and neat.

Roll down the road down the street the frog and toad. In at your gate with an excuse why you are late but not able to remember the date. A night out with the boys and your best mate.
Your key is in the door you burst in and fall on the floor that’s where you lay asleep untill the very next day.
When you awake your head is full of hammers and you wonder weather you used your manners.  Shower and coffee and bacon too, then to the white telephone head down the loo.

Off to bed with the hammers still in your head wishing you hadn’t done it and that you were dead. Close your eyes go to sleep snoring loudly you could sleep for a week.

Running down a tunnel of love no ravens or sparrows just snow white doves. No distraction no going back the tunnel of love is a very long hack.

Light at the end straight as a dye never bending or hurting the eye. Laughter and joy and no more tears.

Running fast towards the light slowly leaving the black lonely night never turning till its far out of sight.

On the wind the Eagle flies way up high with sun in his eyes. 

Glide on your mighty wingspan floating like a fairy in a wonder land. 

Soaring above the earth so calm where no one can catch you and do you no harm. Serine yet mean this hunter he flies untill a prey he spies.
Sweeping down with talens and claws catches his fodder with out a pause . Back up to the sky in the blink of an eye  to feed his young eagles so they don’t die.

Then back on the wing soaring so high silluette against the fading sun  content in the knowledge his job is done.