Sorry, I can't help it, perhaps it's my age, or perhaps it's my personality, perhaps I will be accused of putting a damper on the merry-making, but as the raucous parties die out and the merry chanting of "happy new year" fades into the background and they're filed in that cabinet called memories, my mind is filled with images. Images that confirm in my mind that in capitalism there is no real reason to be jubilant. Its daily savagery is everywhere to be seen.
The Warmth Of A Dream.
He lay in a dark doorway, dreamed of home,
night frost locked his joints
morning rain chilled the marrow of his bone.
In the dream there was a sister,
a pram in a garden, a crowd of youngster
who called him "mister", a time of little pain.
Are these youngsters the same young men, who
now laugh at him, throw beer cans,
piss on him as he lies drunk in some dark lane?
When was that first step down this slippery slope,
when was that first step to no forgiveness.
No will to rise to beg for food,
numbness kills the pain,
The dream brings a warmth that feels good,
dark fog shades out consciousness,
an ambulance carries off a body washed in rain.
Visit ann arky's home at radicalglasgow.me.uk
