They cross with desperation in their bellies
As they pull their pregnant wives on board
Their children left behind in camps,
But not the green and sunny parks where we will pitch our tents,
Instead the slums just over from the port
Where ferries glide on out to sea,
Tantalising to these men and yet
Each day their dreams grow dimmer.
And while we float across the Channel
Browsing perfumes and giant Toblerones,
These poor souls wear garish orange
Clinging to a boat that creaks and groans
As though it knows the weight of problems that it carries
Towards a shore that couldn’t really care.