This competition raises money for Nourish Food Bank. The winning poem, by public vote, has £50 sent to Nourish in the poet’s name. Voting is by “likes” and ends soon.
At the Foodbank
The shop seems dingy and a lack of air,
only opened four hours a week.
Morrison’s supermarket donated yesterday’s bread,
someone from the allotment gave potatoes.
The windows plastered with posters saying,
long-life milk, tinned fish, baby food, toiletries.
The shop is tiny, yet it seems cluttered
two tables in the middle of the floor
and queuing, desperate looking people hand in letters
from the doctor asking for food.
The foodbank has not forgotten its manners
on those tables is a teapot, milk, sugar and a plate of biscuits,
but why do I feel like I am in a funeral parlour?