Travellers

The sun shines on until the church bells ring for evensong,

while we watch the devout and dutiful pass us by,

eyes on the ash keys falling into their children's hair.

We carry stones in our pockets that we do not throw.

At the church gate they gather, mouth words of greeting,

they do not see us, for we are faithless, we are unlovable;

less than crows on telephone wires and beetles in the dust.

We carry grief in our bodies that we do not show.

The winter comes and they will not notice we are gone,

the chickens will still be stolen from the farmyard,

apples from boxes and clothing from Monday's washing lines.

We carry guilt on our shoulders wherever we go.