The Rusting Old Bucket Poem by ANDREW BLAKEMORE
The Rusting Old Bucket
As the rusting old bucket now stands by the shed
In the heart of the damp cobbled floor,
And raindrops are falling from dark leaden skies
But they'll gather within it no more.
For the bucket now holed by the years of its toil
That once carried coal to the fire,
And so proudly stood by the poker and tongs
With its clean and its shining attire.
But it now lies unused in the dirty back yard
And its last days are fading away,
As it stands in the wet of the cold winter's morn
And is riddled by signs of decay.
The handle that bore all the weight that it held
Stands twisted and bent on the pail,
And only is used as a perch by the birds
For so old and so battered and frail.
You have managed to personalise this simple object and yet still somehow give such feeling / emotion to your words, , I don't know why but this poem seems to remind me of that same feeling you got as a Child the morning after the fireworks were set off, , just quite and pondering their spent shells after the blaze A remarkable poem here Andrew, , well done again Love duncan X
This rusty old bucket, was built to last, no longer holds coal But memories - past ! Lovely read Andrew! *10*! ! Friend Thad
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/26/2024 2:30:17 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Well done Andrew, what a lovely explanation you have given us here. A lkovely subject to write about too. Love and hugs Ernestine XXX