As the rusting old bucket now stands by the shed <br />In the heart of the damp cobbled floor, <br />And raindrops are falling from dark leaden skies <br />But they'll gather within it no more. <br /> <br />For the bucket now holed by the years of its toil <br />That once carried coal to the fire, <br />And so proudly stood by the poker and tongs <br />With its clean and its shining attire. <br /> <br />But it now lies unused in the dirty back yard <br />And its last days are fading away, <br />As it stands in the wet of the cold winter's morn <br />And is riddled by signs of decay. <br /> <br />The handle that bore all the weight that it held <br />Stands twisted and bent on the pail, <br />And only is used as a perch by the birds <br />For so old and so battered and frail.<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-rusting-old-bucket/
