“I’m off to pick some litter up.”

The prospect hadn’t lit her up,

so she sat scrolling social posts

while he went strolling past the ‘post

that marks his turn to Braybrooke Road ,

propelled by depressive episode.

For turning left at that T-junction

he walked where some had no compunction

in ejecting from their cars and vans

plastic wrappers, cups, and cans –

not caring how this thoughtless spillage

marred the way into our village.

This lane shows up the country mile

we’ve yet to go to reconcile

our place on earth and how we’ve farrowed

the filthy pigs who’ve filled Phil’s barrow.

Who then was that verge embosser?

Who threw stuff out? Who was that tosser?

Back in the drive. She was all a-twitter

about his shocking haul of litter.

Yet not one foot had she advanced,

just her cosy, passive, indignance.

But the corner-post, the single beacon,

shines – the hero of the season.