Down The Drain

The factory loomed at the top of the hill. A pub sign reflected in yesterdays puddle when it started again The next days morning mixed the muddle with the rains darkening frown on falling leaves from a tree dripping wet with the stain of the sky, which proved messier yet from chimney soot in the root of the road and underfoot. A broken bottle, nights empty threat, soaked fag ends, the torn slip of a bet, a stench of beer from an open door of a toilet crawled, where someone had pissed on the concrete floor and drawled dribbled words with the wetness andmess. All that remained was the aftermath, a drenched, stale mourning, and a big bass broom to sweep the path as the gurgling gutter was muttering glass and disappeared down the drain.