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
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