The Beggar Poem by David Clinch

He lies in a doorway
With the feet passing by
A crushed can beside him
Could tell of his trials

He hears all those voices
In the crisp autumn light
And the coins are like shrapnel
Lying close by his side

The pension's getting closer
As the memory fades
And the wind strikes like a bullet
Through the beer and the haze

He talks of the Army
He did twenty-two years
Of his terrible wounds
And of fighting his fears

An old soldier is dying
He's now fifty-three
In a North Devon High Street
With the booze on the breeze

The pension's getting closer
As the memory fades
And the wind strikes like a bullet
Through the beer and the haze

Now he lies in a doorway
With the feet passing by
And the coins are like bullets
Lying close by his side