Poetry Don't Call On Me

Cold winds blow through city streets
as winter’s grip takes hold
and grey souls in downbeat worlds
retreat to lies untold.

Rain-lashed pavements now are bare,
the forecast speaks of snow,
but in grim northern climates
an oasis starts to glow.

Christmas days are here once more,
those warm enchanting times.
Chance to cast off gloomy dawns,
relive those joyful climes.

But don’t call on me, Saint Nicholas,
just pass me by this year.
Life’s been good to me again,
no cause to shed a tear.

An old girl who lives by me
would welcome your next call.
She’s seen no kin for ages,
no faces to enthral.

I saw a child in council care,
a broken, battered waif.
A visit from such as you
would prove to him he’s safe.

A homeless girl in hospital
gave birth, a damaged boy.
She has no one to share her life,
your smile may bring her joy.

A sad young man walks the streets,
no one has time for stares.
Would you please take hold his hand
and show him someone cares?

Winter’s chill now stalks the land,
those dark foreboding clouds,
though Christmas cheer brings happiness
to Man’s enduring crowds.

But call on me, Saint Nicholas,
next year around this time.
I may be a grey-faced one
in need of love sublime.