The Pile
It grew and grew
Warm winds to bitter southerlies
Green leaves aging to old withered and brown
And yet it still grew
Hopeful winter turned to doubtful summer
The rubbish stench wafting; ruining the fresh air
The match striking the box
Flames erupting like a volcano; licking the trees and scorching the rats
No chance to escape being fried alive
Black smoke curling like a fingers grasping the clouds
Smouldering for days
Again it grows and grows waiting to be lit once more
By Joel Nicholls
JOel, I think this is the most amazing poem. I can really relate to the content because my dad was always burning rubbish when I was a kid.
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