Tom Dylan

The Clear-Out

The skip I\'d hired arrived

early on the Saturday morning

dirty yellow and rusty,

dressed in scruffy jeans

and a faded t-shirt

I set about filling the skip.

 

In went the old TV set,

bashed up suit-cases,

decades\' worth of junk

from the loft,

instruments that I couldn\'t recall

buying let alone playing.

 

I gathered all the rubbish 

from the garden, broken spades,

brushes and deck-chairs,

swept up all the fallen leaves

I\'d been kicking through for months.

 

There was something so therapeutic

about the process, this spring clean,

a clean slate. This clear-out

would do me so much good. 

 

They took the fully-loaded skip away,

I gave the driver a ten pound tip,

the least I could do,

and waved the skip off

down the street,

as though it was a ship

going off to sea.

 

I went back inside smiling,

satisfied at a job well-done,

looking around my 

newly clutter-free home.

It felt like a new house. 

It was perfect. 

 

My hard-work complete it was 

time for a nice cup of tea

and to work on my latest poem.

 

The smile faded from my face

 as I noticed the nice, clean

tidy empty space

where my poetry book 

had been.

 

I swore and cursed and fumed,

raged around my lovely empty room.

Spic and span suddenly feeling 

like a chain, a noose around 

my neck.

 

All my notes and jotting and ideas

were on their way to the junk-yard.

Months and years of scribblings

and half-thoughts, that would

one day be turned into poems

and stories,

sent away with the trash.

 

What on earth would I write about now?

Would I even be able to write?

My muse had been packed up

and thrown away. 

It felt like I\'d gathered up 

my lover\'s belongings

in  bin bags and dumped them

out on the street.

 

I grabbed a pen and paper, 

needing to write something

anything, craving the process,

the feel of the words forming

sentences and lines on the page.

And so I began.

 

The skip I\'d hired arrived 

early on the Saturday morning

dirty yellow and rusty,