Feeling uncomfortable, they stood and stared,
The events of the morning, causing despair,
Woken by the sound of glass being shattered,
Just six month before it had been the same pattern.
Dreading those questions they needed to ask,
For fear that the answer would be the same as the past,
As they gathered together no words were exchanged,
Just fear in their eyes, that it had happened again.
The very same policeman, from months before,
Exits the house, through the aged front door,
Looking bewildered and in complete despair,
He shouts at the crowd: “Why didn‘t you care?”
The lady that had lived there for most of her life,
Had never been a mother or even a wife,
In solitary confinement within her four walls,
She had no one to visit or give her a call.
She had passed away peacefully, within her sleep,
But no one had found her, for quite a few weeks,
The postman had realised something was wrong,
For the pile of letters had been there too long.
Her neighbours felt guilty as they stood in the rain,
Realising that history had repeated again,
Within six months, two people had passed,
Taking weeks for anyone to notice and ask.
They had all been to busy within their own lives,
Some being mothers, husbands and wives,
Never really noticing the old and the weak,
Even though these people were part of the street.
All felt embarrassed by the way they behaved,
That they hadn’t taken notice in this day and age,
It would only have taken a minute or two,
To knock on there door and say: “Can I help you?”
It was little too late for the neighbours to grieve,
They’d turned a blind eye to those in need,
If only they’d bothered to step out of their world,
And realise these people needed some help.