Cheerfully bright

The rain washes everything away
except for the tins,
now empty but once full of drunken dreams
leaving
grey streets splashed with their colourful names,

sun glinting off aluminium rings and a bird sits on
the branch of a dead tree and sings like only a
bird can
a tin can
an old man listens,

light sparkles off the oily drain
something else the rain
didn’t wash away.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.