Wild is the Wind

Wild is the wind
As the day begins
With the scattering of the wheelie bins…
Blown to the left and skewed to the right
Though, mercifully, most still morally upright,
Chattering urgently as lids rise and fall
Though, thankfully, most still standing tall.
There’ll be a few folk locally
Who’ll no doubt be viewing regrettably
The damage wrought on their neighbour’s vehicle,
Said municipal receptacle propelled to tickle
Every motor along the street
On account of having wheels for feet.
Which leads me to the inevitable question,
Did nobody think about wind direction
When contemplating these monikered monstrosities
Now a permanent feature of towns and cities?
Did nobody, just for the briefest of moments
Imagine the chaos, the damage and torment
Of witless robots in soldiering rows
That almost inevitably mangle the toes
In spite of all efforts to drive with care
And place them in line with the others there,
Soulless guardians of of all that’s discarded
Or would be otherwise disregarded
By Bin Men and by charity shops-
Arguably the first of stops
When it comes to sartorial redistribution
The ecologically preferable solution,
Pass-on ownership lessening the burn
Of what we do with the money we earn,
Secretly hoping loved garments will find
A new lovely owner with a charitable mind…
This time of year, when the wind blows cold,
A particular struggle for lost local soulsL
The folk we’re prone to hurrying by,
Fearing we might catch the eye
Of someone so deeply bereft of hope
Vacantly sitting in silence to cope,
Or begging small change at the risk of rejection,
A sleeping bag, their very slender protection,
This state of being a private business
So very simple to dismiss.
But maybe, just maybe, there’s a story to tell
Behind this choice of vagrant hell.





& Brighton(UK)-specific




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