Hi y'all, if cast your minds back you may remember the 'Let's all chip in a make a poem' that Spencer started many weeks ago, and Winston developed into a complete poem and that I unwittingly said, that it seemed a shame to leave out the Manchester element, or split it in two. Well here is my take on the poem, I have twiddled with a few words and changed the order of the verses to try and draw the parallel between the starving child in Africa and the deprived kid in Manchester. Anyway, here goes - written by Janet, Isobel, Spencer,Val Cook, Winston Plowes, Dave Bradley, Francine Louis, andy n, Steve Mellor, and me. (see also discussion thread) - thanks to Steve Mellor and Dave Bradley, for editing and twiddling.


A Child stares through a dead man's eyes.
Can't even spare moisture for the tears he cries.
Drought envelops landscape and soul.
Food is nowhere, an empty bowl.

"Water! Please! More water!?" he cries,
and watches as his brother dies.
A single tear, a pitiful streak,
rolls unseen down his wasted cheek.

He lifts himself, but falls again
Unable to bear the wretched pain
of what he had seen and what he had heard,
but to soldier on was his watchword.

Across the barren land he trudges,
footprints in the sand mere smudges.
An oasis of friends and fertile soil,
dreams, diminished in his earthly toil.

Screened by film, those dead mans eyes
reel in pain, too strong to rise,
too weak to die, too lost to find.
A sad testament to all mankind.

A rock! Some shade from the burning sun,
guides the feet of this little one
Disbelief! What can he see?
He falls to his knees beneath a tree.

Nothingness, that's what he sees
An Oasis? Beneath these withered trees?
A dusty tear slides down his cheek
the only water in this arid creek.

Far away in another place
the wind whips round a dirty face.
Hollow cheeks and vacant eyes
Another boy huddles down and cries.

'At least he's warm', he sniffs and sighs
and squirms as the loathsome rats run by.
Rests his head by the shopfront pane,
watching images of another's pain.

A figure sighs and crouches near
and wipes away his dirty tear.
"It's ok lad, we'll find your home."
She promises in her gentle tone.

The young lad stares with anxious eyes
at the apparition, and begins to rise,
crouched and poised, ready to run
far away from this gentle nun.

"Calm my son,'' she holds him near,
"this is Manchester, there's nought t' fear,
this is neither a mirage nor an oasis,
there's more help here than in foreign places."

"There's a link, twixt you and that poor soul
and survival is your common goal,
you're both here in my heart my dears
you'll share many trials and many tears."

With the eyes of one who's lived before
and trembling hand that was unsure,
he reaches to touch her kindly face
that disappears without a trace.

Miles away in a distant land
a young boy lies face down in sand.
A soft hand brushes his wasted face,
transcending life and time and space.

Two pairs of eyes fix and stare
as the wind howls and the sun glares.
Deep within their spirits are alive.
With hope and passion, they will survive.

From a cracked photo of a foreign land
viewed through a rippling curtain of sand,
they take their first step, knowing they're not alone,
to where their fathers' memories have blown.

To only themselves had they been obliged
but, through their storms they had realised,
that tears of sorrow help to heal.
Make them what they are, show them how to feel.

Some wondered what became of them,
and if they knew they would think again.
They never forgot from whence they came
and helped many others to do the same.