by Angela Prew

The ‘poor’ sleep on cardboard,
wear rags, beg at street corners,
push supermarket trolleys
filled with trash from dustbins
of the wealthy.
“How dreadful,” we say
as we look the other way.
We pack a bag of old clothes, tins
past the sell-by date;
leave it to be given out
by someone else.
We never meet the needy, but
we have filled a need,
stayed clear of contact.
How cold is Charity.


Dry Season

by Pam Newham

Between you and me
It’s wearing me down.
I’m wrung out.
When will the rains come?
The sweet rain of deliverance.
The sweet rain of voices
to wash away
the false-hearted
with their smiling lies,
paper-thin promises,
plots and schemes.
The desiccated dream.