Old Frosty Winds
Is grizzled and raddled and sozzled and saddled
With much unhappiness where he sits
On the bench in the shopping precinct
On winter afternoons.
Sometimes he shouts at the people
And sometimes he shouts at himself.
His beard is like broken glass and his clothes like garbage.
Poor Frosty Winds,
With only a bottle for company
And what he has to say
In the tearing weather
To his sad head.
Soon he’ll be dead
As the litter that blows round his ankles,
As the supermarket tickets, screwed away, useless,
The bang of the trolleys that stack up alongside the wall
And the wind that will turn
On its journey.
What can you say to Frosty?
At least you can say goodbye.