Brassy as prized art, a conglomeration of junk
leers at me cockily from the hedgerow.
Its centrepiece – a fridge – sits stark
flanked by bulging plastic sacks
stuffed with crumbling chunks of plastered laths.
Toadflax and clumps of lemon balm
slicked thick with oil from a rusted sump
slump down dying, a car battery sits
sullen as a ticking bomb beside a pair of shoes
tongues crumpled, soles worn perfectly smooth.
Conscience tugs. Behind the Blackthorns
a mattress weeps for all abandoned lovers.
I look and see the pinched face of Jesus in the stains,
smell clods of childhood, taste blood-iron
from a knee, scab-torn raiding orchard apples.
Back home, I relate the heinous crime
to my wife. Disgraceful, she says, appalled.
After dinner we sit out in our garden
and watch sugar-stealers glide like daydreams
in the evening breeze, rendering the sun obtuse.