Dockland, Hard Labour

Early morning chill:

dense fog stained by the effluvia of thousands of smoky hearths

constricts  vulnerable lungs. Always threatening to overwhelm.

The silent crowd, bodies sapped by  poverty's diet wait for another stale  
                                                        day of labour

Thus the ritual of every day, against the sluggish waters, beneath
                                               the indifferent sky.

Hope outnumbered: Too many needy men braced for ten hours of exhaustion.

Whose are the names that will not be called?

In these streets of hovels, who knows how many sickly children will die?

Children bred from joyless coupling, some who barely survive

haunt these merciless streets hands outstretched, hearts for ever empty.


At this hour, the master's children are sleeping

close insulated, warmly clothed always fed.