Rag and Bone

Outside, the sound of two children at play, she pushed a pram, he kicked a yellow ball, a van approached, he scuttled out the way 'scrap iron!' came the monotonic call. My childhood, I remember on this street the rag 'n bone man, cart pulled by a horse my football clattered, bounced between its feet like pinballs on their strange erratic course. The old man took scrap iron, steel and lead, would sharpen household blades and garden shears, take them back to his workshop in his shed, flat cap on head, pencil behind his ear. With all his best intentions this pair's job would never earn a living year on year it seemed to me pin money, a few bob, the greater need his cigarettes, or beer. Did he consider packing it all in his future at that age counted in days four legged partner old and tired like him so close that time when they would part the ways? On the school building, sunset washed the wall, their passing shadows cast answered it all. For contest 'eight word challenge', sponsor Robert Haigh 14th march 2018