THE plight of Stroud’s poor, a concert in the Subs for refugee children and the fate of the Sub Rooms themselves, all within your current issue, prompted my submission below.

Is the mean-spirited, over curmudgeonly and cynical stance, adopted in it, one which I truly believe, or one intended to engage, enrage and thus prompt thought and debate?

I am a Stroudie and still have friends and family living in Thrupp, Stonehouse, Leonard Stanley and Bussage, plus many drinking acquaintances all around the town itself.

But without further ado:

Charity Begins at Home..well it should do!

”Margaret Morrissey was found, today,

Badly decomposed, in her home,

Having been too ill, to fend for herself,

And living, many years, on her own.

Her two Persian cats were alive, though,

Nature teaching them to survive,

By gnawing at her face, and exposed limbs,

And feasting on the maggots and the flies.

She lived on a bustling housing estate,

Which once boasted very caring neighbours,

But they had either died, or moved away,

With no one left to shop, or do her favours.

No one, any more, to visit her,

No one left to share a cup of tea,

We modern people being so in-su-lar,

With selfish narcissism, and all “ME!! “

Yes, the Social Services apologised,

And, yes, she had slipped through their net.

But if it hadn’t been for the awful smell,

She could have still been there, even yet.

Three months deceased, and no one knew!

No one came to check on her, up there,

Her children only living just five miles away,

And at her death they’d hardly seemed to care.

And so with little fuss, or ceremony,

Margaret will be quietly laid to rest,

The flat fumigated, and a lick of paint,

“Thank you very much! And the next!”

Now many of those who’d lived nearby,

For many months had shown a heady passion,

In voicing their concern over refugees,

And supporting relocation, as is fashion.

Demonstrators plackarded in London;

The lobbying of mayor and MP,

Doe-eyed children tugging at their heart strings,

A pouring - out of shared humanity.

Rummage sales were set up by the vicar,

The leisure centre sponsored fun and games,

A whip-round in the pub, near closing time,

For such a philanthropic, noble aim.

The community, it seemed, had united;

“Let’s petition for a camp upon the hill!”

“Let’s do our bit to help those war-torn people!”

Let’s get the council purse to foot the bills.”

Volunteers made door to door collections,

Announcing their intent by microphones;

They knocked on wood, and pushed - in bells and buzzers,

At offices and factories and homes.

Margaret, of course, could not answer,

And no one heard her pleading, or her moans,

And so had died so old and frail and lonely,

Starving, scared and frozen to her bones.

Now what the hell is wrong with us people?

While helping strangers we are all aglow;

But when it comes to caring and compassion,

We shy away from helping folk we know.

Are we too embarrassed to assist them?

Are we all so scared to be thought weak?

Is it just because we are English?

Is that what makes us turn the other cheek?

It’s very fine to champion an issue,

A “raison-d’etre,” on a fresh crusade,

But please, as you do so, just remember,

There could be someone closer who needs aid.

So if you feel compelled to help somebody,

Check locally and find who is alone,

And may be sick, or hungry or forgotten,

For “Charity,” my friends, “begins at home!”

Alan V King

Thailand