A poem, written at the end of 2018, dedicated to all those with loved ones in prison over the so-called festive period – especially women doing their best to keep what remains of their families together. I have struggled to get this poem finished because I am now fortunate enough to have a house full of my family. I have promised myself that I will not rest until we have changed the attitude of those foolish enough to believe, as the Dail Mail implies, that we are getting soft on prisoners. I would challenge anyone who thinks like that to discuss with me or, preferably, spend a week in Wandsworth or one of the other luxury hotels of Her Majesty’s prison estate. And if I were able to speak to that lady I would remind her that I, a simple citizen, would be ashamed to have my name associated with such filthy, dangerous and failing institutions.
The Prisoner’s Year End
This is not the end of just another year
It’s the first time in four that I’ve been free
Things familiar, family and friends are near
And, here, what I get is really what I see
Despite years alone amidst the many yet the few
Who were never close to knowing me
Strangers in such serious and subtle ways
Though helpful and kind through darkest days
For me, as for many, there was little they could do
From mid-December, locked out of public sight
We all feigned a sort of year-end joy
But when that cell door closed at night
There was not an inmate, man or boy
Who did not think of another place
Who did not suffer the temptation to destroy
To kick a wall or bang on a door
Who wondered not what his sentence was for
Nor cherished memories of a loved one’s face
So, as you listen to those carol choirs sing
Be mindful of those forced to bear the noise
That troubled souls to all prisons bring
Those who outside are proud to be the “boys¨
Who, once inside, call out in the darkness
While your children unwrap their wished-for toys
And fill your room with shrieks of delight
There are those who suffer shrieks of fright
And face the stress of prison starkness
And, when you sit down at your food-filled table
As the shortest days come to an end
Remember those families sincerely unable
To celebrate or, at least, obliged to pretend
Because an absentee is so sorely missed
Who eats in a cell which he’s forced to defend
By an open toilet that’s shared with another
Who also misses his wife or mother
Who by night, by loved one, will not be kissed