In the heart of St. John’s where the shadows lie long, Beneath a grey canopy, cold and forlorn, I wander the alleys where the lost are the throng, And dream of a hearth that I once called my own. Once I walked on cobblestone streets so well-known, A life spun of comfort, where warmth was my cloak, Now my days are a shiver, a grey, mournful tone, As I curl in a tent where the dampness is woke. The Old Government House stands stoic and grand, Yet, by its faded grandeur, I dwell in my plight, With the broken and weary who share the cold land, Our nights veiled in darkness, our dreams out of sight. In the thin veil of canvas, where mildew takes hold, I lay down my sorrows on sidewalks so stark, Where the ghosts of my past in my heart grow so cold, And the North Atlantic wind bites sharp in the dark. With fifteen an hour, the wage of the damned, In a city where good work is as rare as the sun, Each coin is a mockery, each dream gets unplanned, And each day, a fight with the fear that I’ve won. The folk on George Street, where the drunks like to prowl, Bring the menace of night, with their curses and jeers, Their alpha-like threats make my own spirit scowl, And the terror of violence is one of my fears. They spit on my troubles, they hurl their disdain, Their words are like daggers, their cruelty unbound, As I long for the warmth of a life lived again, With the echoes of laughter and comfort profound. The cold, bitter weather that lashes my skin, Is a constant reminder of the life that I miss, And the dark thoughts of ending, like shadows within, Wrestle with hope that’s become but a whispering hiss. O fate, you have thrust me where sorrow holds sway, In this city of fog where my spirit is torn, Yet still in the depths of the bleakest of days, I dream of a dawn that will end this forlorn. So I huddle in silence, beneath the night’s shroud, With the ghosts of my past and the chill in my bones, In the heart of St. John’s, I stand lost and unbowed, Hoping for solace, and a  place to call home. M. S Chandler