THE BUILDERS YARD 

By the Urban Poet

An eerie, icy builders yard

tools, equipment and materials

do forlornly lie 

A barrow with a squeaky

wonky wheel

Caked with cement

bruised with grit

  Planks of un-plained

knotted wood rest

amidst rusted terracotta

scaffolding clamps

A thousand screws and nails

some misshapen, aged

extracted, used,

deemed useless

caress bags of unused

carpet tacks and masonry bolts

   Creosote in a lonely twisted drum

Snuggling next to un-soaked hard bristled

paint brushes, in which white spirit or turpentine bath have not been, seen or heard

   Quality wood shavings, stories to tell of crafted pieces of art, sanded fireplace

waiting for tinder and spark

to show its prowess in a dim art deco world 

   Empty plaster bags exuding dust

held down by cable

in coils of red yellow and green

how many houses would it all have been laid

connected and fed with current, voltage

and amperage to power

    Bricks and breeze blocks are the overlords here, boasting of ambitious

structures intended

These lie preserved, protected

in the bricklayers lean-to

perhaps waiting patiently for a hod to carry them, to grace the space to build

when the Master Builder returns?

But who is he and will he ever return?

From ‘Poetry Gold’ by ‘Rick’ Varden