He occupies the corner of Red Lion square, with his bag of bread a magnet for the steely flocks of pigeon. A large, black man, barely visible under thick layers, with a wooly hat pulled down hard, and soon almost lost from view under a welter of feather and feeding. I walk the other way so as not to disturb the communion but then he vanishes as my back is turned, leaving only the faded polish of his seat and wide-spread footprints, outlined in crumbs.
Old, it is old, this scattering of the bread,
Seldom they speak of God, He is too dim;
Still will the poor go out with loving words;