You could fit many memories in the old wheelbarrow,
He now sits there, lopsided and useless.
Glazed and sweaty like a drunken docker.
Birds perch on his shoulders, casually dropping
white blots of mess down his back.
His rusted handles, bound with twine,
tight to his wrists, dragging out every
drop of life.
In youth he was my chariot, sat in him
like a King.
Granddad at the helm,
crunches of gravel beneath his square,
under-inflated tyre, wheezing
I’d sway within his gaping mouth
as we huff-puff heaved to the heap.
The miles worked outweighed the logs
carried by him.
Lugging wood, lugging grass,
lugging from yard to heap.
The sad, square tyre would sometimes
let out a rubbery moan when
he was used precariously as a step.
Balance was essential, patience and
sweet talking him.
Like riding a bike, the best methods
are never lost.
O’er up over steps and kerbs and slalom smooth like around garden ornaments. The skill is always there.
Now though, he just leans, a discoloured demise like yesterday’s fashion.
Still carrying those memories though.
I longed for the town, so I went.
He stayed put.