Gladys Taylor

Bon Chance
Every Day in Calais

You need it,
That wrinkled young man with yesterday’s pride
And washed-out memory of what
Used to be,
Seeking survival from you,
From me.

You need it,
The woman  whose soul
Is prised from her eyes
her baby dead at an empty breast,
No chance for the child – for the mother,
No rest.

You need it,
The child who rocks, tones, moans,
Crouched alone – she cannot reach
parents washed up
On a foreign beach.

You need it,
All of you, left to seek
Compassion   from those who will not see
Humanity is the refugee –
Humanity
Is you,
Is me.