I was in town this morning looking at all the ‘tat’ that people are buying in preparation for Christmas. It was sad to think that so much of it would fall out of favour, be broken, or simply thrown away before the New Year starts. It was this train of thought that led to the following poem;
Trucks spill their contents to the floor
little fingers pick through piles of fetid waste
to grasp at scraps others discard.
Not for these, shiny paper.
Not for them, a three course meal.
Here on a city dump
a doll with no arms,
a wheel with no spokes
or blocks with letters they can't read
bring wider smiles than many
on 'developed' streets.
John Carré Buchanan
05 December 2014