The Blaby Council Tip Poem by peter godfrey

Here is a world of disbelief;
A cold Hades in the rain
Where hooded men come briefly
And leave again reminding us
Of Plague Men long ago
Carrying off their suppurating dead.
This is the Tip.
There are many
Just the same.
From bright beginings the new things
Come to end their days
Begun in hope and expectation
To end in spoiled despair.
Shabby machines that once washed
Persil white huddle together
In their asymmetrical cemetery
Beside where fridges cower;
Cold comfort now destroyed.
And dead vacuum cleaners
Some with plugs unkindly amputated
Have breathed their last.
And there - a pile of blinded telesets,
Next to the soundless music players
Struck dumb, surprised at this awful
Fete accompli.
A red stetson party hat defiled.
Some mattresses from whence all
Romance fled.
More visitors come with carpets, sinks
Sunk into a nest of hunched
Wire hangers no longer
Lending their support to anything.
Some broken cupboards.
Oh this is a sad and terrible place!
Even the grimy puddles seem to be
Resevoirs of fallen tears.
The Tip. Last resting place
Of all our deconstructed jetsam
All began as cheerful hopes
But were merely the future
Of our despairs and now
Not wanted on the voyage.