Back in the eighties I spent a while on the streets, homeless and out of my head. Part of that time was on the Whitechapel Road in East London. Despite the circumstances, and amongst the dark memories, I still have a few light ones.

I used to love hearing the call to prayer from the local Mosque. I had never been religious back then but that sound, that voice, singing from the heart took me away from my self-inflicted hardship every time I heard it.

I also remember the camaraderie amongst the homeless, drinkers and the generally lost. This poem recounts a wonderful example of how we often looked after each other, when we were able to.

I never met the man I was told helped me out - Jimmy Boyle. But I'll never forget him.