A child upon the doorstep weeps <br />ignored from passers-by, <br />She wipes away her lonely tears <br />With sagging woollen sleeve, <br />Locked out to play alone within <br />That bleak and terraced street, <br />Where pavements act as gardens <br />And throughout the city weave. <br /> <br />They grow beside each narrow road <br />With litter as the flowers, <br />That yield a harsh and pungent stench <br />Through red-bricked valley walls, <br />The only green the moss that lies <br />Between the kerbs of stone, <br />She cries out for her mother <br />But on deafened ears it falls. <br /> <br />A child upon the doorstep weeps <br />Neglected and abused, <br />Her socks once white as grey now <br />As the winter skies above, <br />She wears to hide the bruises <br />That she wished she could forget, <br />But she's never known no other life <br />And never tasted love.<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-child-upon-the-doorstep-weeps/
