Winter Terror

Maybe it wasn't the coldest day

of the year, but the wind made it 

feel that way: wind so loud he had to

shout, the man sat by the Monument 

begging. 

He had to shout just to be heard, 

and the cold made him shout louder:

the cold he felt then and the cold

that he knew he would feel if he failed

to get enough cash for a bed for the night

in a hostel. Cold that kills, and cold 

that weakens, cold that weakened him

even as he shouted at the passers-by,

voice filled with jostling rage and desperation,

each shout angrier and sadder than the last.

Myself, I had no money I could give him,

was living on toogoodtogo bags, online tips

and the joke that this country calls benefits. 

If I could, I would have,

because I know too well how it feels

to see your future shrink to less than just 

a single night, to see those wrapped up 

snugly pass by, to feel that mounting rage

at those whose kindness you rely on. 

Do you begin to understand, now, 

as prices rise and payments are withdrawn,

a little of the desperate rage he felt then? 

As nights draw in

and wind whips up

do you feel it? The true

terror of winter?