Gargoyles On A Park Bench

As I walk past my eyes cannot miss
the creatures sitting in their abyss.
A Him, and a Her, huddled together
like they were set in stone and had been there forever.
Their pained faces broadcast hurt,
their hair greasy, and streaked with dirt.
The pity I felt for them knew no end,
I would have liked to have been their friend.
But they were dirty, smelly and riddled with lice,
and they shared their bedroom with the City’s mice.
She was wearing a tattered duffle,
which turned her voice to a humble muffle
as I approached her and gave her 50 pence.
Her eyes said ‘Thank you’, and ‘Thank you’ they meant.
As I turned and walked away, I couldn’t help but look back.
I saw them sitting there, as they were before, nothing had changed.
I suddenly lost that contentment that filled me
when I handed that lady my pocket money,
as I realised it hadn’t made everything alright.
My contribution alone, wasn’t enough to change anything.
As I watched them shiver beneath their sparse blanket and last week’s Times,
the Winter Wind swept a tear away.
And they’re probably still there, to this very day.
They won’t have had the dignity of an allocated trench,
but instead turned to gargoyles on a park bench.