Next Door
Next door was a paddock
of long grass and a graveyard
for dumped machinery.
Rusted out boilers, cogs, wheels
and huge presses were piled high
and begged for the sure foot
of a boy to climb and boast
the height.
Strange, twisted shapes
held a pose that seemed to freeze
the agony of being broken apart.
Sinews of wire cable hung
from joints in frayed strands
as if torn out of sockets.
Grease oozed from cracks
like congealed blood.
Nothing seemed to fit
a species familiar to a boy,
each part a mystery as to what
beast it belonged.
There were holes big enough
too fit a head, throated cavities
that harbored unknown echoes
and pipes that would hold
a haunting note when struck
with a stick.
One afternoon on coming home
from school, there was nothing
left but a cleared block.
Everything had been carted away.
A workman told my Mum
that snakes had crawled out
of the place where I used to play.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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