The Orchard

Passing down a dusty lane, with shallow cars and rough terrains.

The rubbish bin stands awake, echoing pollution and unwanted makes.

The beauty stands across the lane, where the groves need the beginning of rain,

Pomona’s sun-kissed touch lushed the pears and golden peaches with paradigms of leaves, multicoloured and bleached.

Though when the prolonged period of scarcity awakens, and the grove begins to be shaken.

When its tender branches and autumn leaves fall to the grass streams,

So finally, the rubbish bin, dull and dark has its moment to shine,

Tears down its face as the lovely grove is in reminder,

The blazing sun washes the black paint

and the coarse winds cause pollution to fly away,

It's left lonely, and bare.

It tries to flee but the strand of growing grass seizes it, steadily.

New forms of life grow around it, barricading the lights.

Red flowers, birds and mushrooms trying to take their rights.

And the rubbish bin, barren and lonely sits there invaluably,

Waiting for a friend who is also dejected.