Nice to huddle down in a sleeping-bag,
like the others here, keeping winter’s chill
away with tins of cheap lager and heat
from shared cigs and spliffs. Not much we can do,
this raw night, but watch the treacly river
wambling the reflections of city lights.
Our arches have been shuttered off
from the scrubby ground where we could walk –
a change from freezing arses outside banks:
the developers whose JCBs smashed
the trees a few years ago have fulfilled
a terminator’s promise to be back.
Though this land is soured with industrial waste
their cranes are raising flat-pack apartments
for those who appreciate riverside
graffiti and have jobs that’ll pay the rent.
They won’t want us anywhere near. We know
we’ll be moved on soon; homeless yet again.