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.