Ken's Poetry

Litter

The plastic shopping bag
on the cherry tree
has gone.
The wind has loosened its grip at last
and flown it down to the shrubbery
beside the motorway to rest
among the crisp bags, sweet wrappers
and polythene soft drinks bottles
chattering like teeth
in dawn’s crackling chill.

Children come out with the white sun
free from winter’s chains
rattle around the green
bright as parrots
scream their delight;
cars in gaudy gift-wrap,
lorries like chocolate bars
batting the glare into their eyes.
The catalytic sun turns all to colour
that sticks to the eye
like hundreds-and-thousands.