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The Tip

At the end
of the river's exhausted reach
where swamp firmed
into solid ground, there was a place
the locals used as a tip.
Broken, worn out stuff
from clean outs, hoarded 
household effects finally let go,
garage junk 
and the discarded leftovers 
from deceased estates
were dumped there.

The place was a goldmine for boys
on the hunt for soapbox wheels
and parts or anything 
that could be used to build 
wonders blueprinted
on raging minds. Pipes bent 
into chopper handlebars 
to lend lift to a boring bike, fit outs
for tree houses, defenses for forts,
the frames for boats and airplanes 
that were born in hope
but would never float or fly
beyond a backyard.
The thrill was in the making.

When the council closed the tip
and moved it miles away,
it was as if a vital organ
in the neighborhood soul had been
taken out. Boys were deprived 
of the lifeblood and source
of their making. For some time,
groups would ride their bikes there
and pause before an empty space
and stare. They had no words 
for their grief. Slowly, the hole 
healed over though something
inside had been lost. The bounty
that was once provided by the tip
was replaced by shiny things 
bought brand new from shops.


Copyright © Paul Willason

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Book: Reflection on the Important Things