Image by Leonard Bentley

Old London

The name’s Sparrow and this is my story.

Born on the wrong side of the tracks, the dark alley down by the Bull and Rag is home to many like me. Life don’t hold out no gold permit for the likes of us.

Unwanted, we live in the shadows. The fog of London turns us invisible, helping us to find food and old clothing. Anything we can find to keep us warm in winter. Twelve years now, I have seen many, much younger. Not all survive. When one goes, we shift the body under the street lights, where for once in their lives they will be seen. When we hear the siren, we know they have been taken away to be buried, a permanent home.

A plain wooden cross with no name, he’s a number. Someone should have loved him. One of these days, I will tear down this invisible barrier, the blocks that stand in my way. I will walk the streets of London in style. Men will doff their hats; ladies in their Sunday best will smile as I pass by. The name’s Sparrow, I am part of this world, I will be seen…