There Is

There is hope in the midden,

a spark in the ashes

a light in the shadows

There is.

Riches are not the clink of joke-shop coins

or gem-stone silicates and ancient coals

or a second home in Ceredyggion

or a taxi for every journey.

There is life in the tower,

love among the others,

time to change slumland.

Poverty is not the lack of quinoa in larders

but the absence of fathers and wages,

or the grit of mothers with two jobs,

or a bus-ride to a street corner.

There is poor and there is hopeless,

a chance in a million,

not one chance in a hundred.

Injustice is not in the tabloid’s cartoon venom,

or the detached concern of Islington,

or a union Rumpelstiltskin’s faux rage

or a dozen prurient TV documentaries.

There is injustice in schools bought

by fees or moving house,

in I’m-Alright-Jack generations

of postcode lottery winners.

There is hope in the midden.

There is?