My final “Rubbish Poem” of the year. Happy New Year to all. Beware The Beast.   Ohseventhirtythree On the last morn of the Year, The bins out in the streets Packed deep with excess festive Cheer.   It’s cold outside, In here, it’s Warm, Safe inside, ignorant, we Await the coming of the Storm.  …

They’re here, Lights flashing, Hi-Viz loading All the trash in- To the belly of The Beast For her weekly Roadside feast On all the debris Left outside of The houses on Each street. Where in piles stacked So very neat, The Beast Devours each tasty treat Left in cans and Inside jars, And in boxes…

Hark! Hear her squawk, hear her screech As The Beast backs down the street. Glowing orange, flash and blink, She chases winter’s night to ground. Marching beside, solemn in their duty, The Hi-Viz Herald her descent.   Hark! Hear her groan, hear her grind As she feasts, gorging on the Offerings roadside left behind. Satiated,…

Day dawns bright, skies on fire, Night retreating on a funeral pyre. A resurgent sun flames new light, Holds firm against the black of night. The cold, the dark, both slip away Revealing in their wake a chill Tuesday.   Emerging now from the dying gloom, Adorned in tabards bright as a nuclear bloom. Their…

Perched high atop the lumbering beast, he oversees The weekly feast, As down below, in dirty streets, his Hi-Viz crew Prepare the treats That the behemoth Chomps and chews and gnaws.   He watches as yellow vests feed the beast from kerb and step and from Drives left gated. With the weekly wastes choicest morsels….

Eight fifteen on Tuesday’s chilly morn, Three weeks yet until the Saviour’s dawn. A feeble orange sun helps dispel the sheen Of frost that hides your frozen windscreen. With scratch and scrape, scrape and scratch You hurry to clear enough of a patch Of glass in which you can view your route To where you’ll…

Technically, I am still waiting for them to arrive. Worries for them are mounting now but, in anticipation of their imminent appearance, here is another poem from today. Lo! Can you hear that sound on the breeze? It carries to us as it snakes through the trees. They’re coming at last and will arrive soon…

We all like familiarity in our lives. On our street, some of that familiarity is provided with the arrival of the bin men around 0800 every Tuesday. When they fail to arrive on schedule, you notice their absence. Here is a poem, penned while I wait for them. Where are the men in their hi-viz jackets? Who…