One of those cold, hard nights,
Moon as hard-bitten as a frosted apple,
Sky pocked with stars; a teenaged mother
Clutches a squally baby to her breast against
The harsh world, folded into her body,
A bloodshot moon above them
Points to where nowhere is home
 
Weeks to Christmas, the cash tills already
Counting their blessings, seasons greetings
Overflowing with hypocrisy, queues
Outside Marks & Spencer for the Black Friday deals,
And I am in disorderly huddle, bearing a placard:
‘Refugees welcome here!’ ‘Welcome?’
Someone shouts, ‘What about our own?
Refugees should go back to where they come from!’
Back to…where exactly? To our birthplace,
Like the census in Bethlehem, no…
Further… to our wombs, our tombs, our atoms 
And stardust that made us,
Back to our chemical components…?
 
But it is pointless arguing with those who
Refuse to listen, so we keep up our vigil
Outside The Dragon Hotel — above us
A fake Christmas star twines in and out
In rhythm with the wind.

Rebecca Lowe is a writer, editor and journalist, based in Swansea, south Wales. She is a Bread and Roses Spoken Word Award winner. She has two published collections, Blood and Water (The Seventh Quarry, 2020) and Our Father Eclipse (Culture Matters, 2021).