DRIFTWOOD

washed up on the shore,
so exquisite, so polished;
Feels like silk in my hands,

For days, weeks or longer
it has travelled,
across oceans and seas,

hammered against rocks
varnished by sand.

Reminding me of many unfortunates,
living in the shady side of our cities,
by gleaming edifices of beauty and wealth;

Driftwood of humanity.

Playthings to those who exploit,
sleeping in doorways, under bridges,
washed up from an ocean of society;
There was no space for them within,

they see the sun, feel the rain,
but can they feel joy?
when their mattress is concrete?

meanwhile we sleep in soft beds
pampered and fed.

How my heart bleeds
wishing to rescue, to help;
Praying those with knowledge will,
as I give my support,

yet the sorrow and helplessness is there.
Around the corner glittering skyscrapers stand
holding wealth beyond sense.

Still, I pick driftwood by the shore,
feeling it’s journey in my hands;
Journey across oceans free,

Washed by the sea
Kissed by the sun.

© miriam ivarson