If only we could sing that song again,
The dispossessed said to their reflection.
You know, the one about a shed, a house, a home.
A shelter we could call our own,
A safe place to live in.
Though, obviously, that’s not happening.
Still, opening their mouths,
They began to sing with a bit of a quaver,
About a home.
That place where the poet said
They had to let you in.
‘Not in our experience,’ the refugees sighed.
Then fell silent, considering.
Which, frankly, didn’t change a thing
For there was only a handful listening.
Still they keep on singing.
©2019 Gwen Grant