She fell near Leeds Bus Station

She fell near Leeds Bus Station.

Where the pigeons limp,

and the wind smells of chip fat,

regret,

and last night’s fight.

One minute she’s upright—

shopping bag swinging,

coat buttoned wrong,

face like someone’s nan

trying to hold it together.

Next—

cracked pavement,

a scream swallowed in concrete.

People saw.

Of course they did.

But seeing’s not the same as stopping.

The Vicar —

suitcase wheels clicking on the slabs,

robes folded inside,

late for Chapter at the Minster—

slowed, frowned,

kept walking.

A Bible college student—

guitar case,

passport,

heading for a mission trip—

crossed over.

Muttered, “God bless.”

Didn’t stop.

Even the street preacher

outside Greggs

turned up the volume,

called down fire

from a safe distance.

Then—

him.

Scruffy.

Scabs on his arms.

Known to the police.

No fixed address.

He sees her.

Really sees.

Drops his bag—

Lucozade,

half a sandwich;

a gift from the street kitchen.

Kneels, slow.

Bones clicking.

Mind racing.

“Hey, hey love, you alright?”

She blinks.

Nods—or just trembles.

He shrugs off his jacket—

reeks of street, sweat

and smoke

and somehow still

smells like grace.

Puts it under her head.

Cradles her wrist.

Keeps the cold off her

with his own thin frame.

People film.

No one helps.

He doesn’t care.

Starts humming—

maybe a hymn,

maybe just pain

with a melody.

Paramedics come.

See the junkie.

See the woman.

Join the dots wrong.

They mutter.

Do their job.

Take her away.

He lights a rollie,

leans against the bricks,

eyes closed

like he’s praying.

Because maybe he is.

And heaven?

Heaven saw it all.

Didn’t need a collar,

a pulpit,

or a three-point sermon.

You see,

Love looks like something,

Love is a verb.

-Rev'd Jon Swales