Walking The Streets

His clothes looked old and tattered, The boots he wore, well worn, His beard grey, He carried a bag, I saw him every morn. The kids all called him, "That old tramp" I felt, so sorry for him, He walked the streets, Outside he slept, He had nothing, But a pleasant grin. Sometimes he'd knock, Upon the doors, He'd raise his old black hat, Asking for any unwanted clothes, It took courage to do that. Mum would give him, Dads old shirts, Then he would raise a smile, He'd go on his way, With a spring in his step, Walking many miles. His, was a face I remember, Memories as a child, I wonder what became of him? The tramp with the pleasant smile. Jayne Louise Davies