top of page
  • Writer's pictureRichard Morgan


I met this gentle character 3 years ago living on the streets of Santa Cruz. He is was not an addict or an alcoholic, just a displaced loner, confused by the world .Tony got used to me giving him a few euro each morning for breakfast and would cross the street to meet me .

I met him again last week on the same bridge across the barranco de santos , and pressed a few coins into his hand. Still a man of few words , I know no more about his past, his life on the street or what brought him to this point in the present . He has had his hair trimmed since I photographed him in 2015 but he still has the same penetrating eyes . I wrote this poem wondering about his past .


Antonito to the mother and sisters

who ruffled your hair

and fussed over your undone laces.

Antonio to the blood brother amigos

who dared you climb higher,

watching the world unfold

like a shimmering ochre blanket,

with it's roads and rivers and signposts,

bridges, cables, and tarmac

On a distant smudge of horizon .

Childhood summers

played out on lanes fringed

with garlic and bluebells,

cartwheels and dung rough games

on quiet ways , that led ,

Somewhere .

And from your crow's nest

you cursed the bleached fields

and gobbed at the wind

fearless of tomorrow .

But already shadows were gathering

Creeping , lengthening imperceptibly

from the margins of the fields

Like a dark tide ,

Stealing the day .

What current swept you here

to this cracked corner

of scarred concrete

and last night's hunger ?

With only the wind now,

to ruffle your hair ?

102 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All
bottom of page