Numbered, Named, Found

Prison number A34719.

That’s who he is on paper.

A number.

A file.

A ticked-off risk.

"Repeat offender."

"Unlikely to engage."

He’s out now,

if you can call it that.

No fixed abode.

He kips in the underpass,

names of the dead

sprayed on the walls.

Sometimes he wonders

if his will be next.

He begs for a sandwich,

but what he really wants

is a tenner

to shut out the noise:

those voices that snake

through his skull:

You’re nothing.

No one’s coming.

He goes to the feeds,

not just for food,

but for a face

that sees him.

It’s autumn now,

rain kicking in sideways.

The city lights up Light Night.

He lives in the shadows.

He tells himself

he wants detox,

but not today.

Not with the shakes.

Not when they say,

"No beds. No space."

He’s not a safe bet.

A stray.

Still, in the hush

between sirens,

something shifts.

‘Steve.’

He stops.

Thinks he’s hearing things.

But it’s not a voice

that judges.

It knows.

Knows the ache.

The stink of prison.

The scar.

The want.

The fear.

‘Steve,

I know your name.

I know your pain.

The nights you begged to stop.

The system gave up on you.

I didn’t.’

He looks up.

A gate, wide open.

Light spilling out.

No clipboard.

No guards.

Just welcome.

'I am the Gate.

Walk through me.

You are not a number.

You are mine.

Come home.'

So he steps.

Then another.

Something breaks.

Not fear.

But breath.

He’s not running.

Not hiding.

Not high.

He’s found.

And the air

on the other side

doesn’t stink of prison,

or piss,

or petrol,

or despair.

It smells like forgiveness.

Like home.

Like life.

- Rev'd Jon Swales