A poem by Brian Kirk
The
air grew cold, the night was at my door,
The
city slept where it could find a bed,
Who
said that we will always have the poor?
Whoever
said it must have been so sure
That
he or his would never want for bread.
The
air grew cold, the night was at my door.
The
starving woman must be judged a whore
When
all she does is keep her children fed.
Who
said that we will always have the poor?
I
watched the moonlight steal across the floor,
I
thought of all the innocents who bled,
The
air grew cold, the night was at my door.
I
couldn’t sleep, my eyes were raw and sore
From
dwelling on the lives that many led.
Who
said that we will always have the poor?
I
wished I had the courage to do more
Than
lie awake at night and hold my head.
The
air grew cold, the night was at my door,
Who
said that we will always have the poor?
Brian Kirk has published two poetry collections with Salmon Poetry, After The Fall (2017) and Hare’s Breath (2023) and a fiction chapbook It’s Not Me It’s You (Southword Editions, 2019). His novel Riverrun was a winner of the Novel Fair 2022.
More work by Brian Kirk
Tel: 028 7126 6946
Email: hueditor@theverbal.co
Verbal, Stable Lane and Mall Wall, Bishop Street Within, Derry/Londonderry, BT48 6PU
companyCopyright © 2026 Honest Ulsterman