The devoid of feeling, empty processed pea tin rattles down the street and

pushed along by the banshee like eruption of winds

that beat, beat…beat against the window

pleading to be let in, the tin can, the remnants

of its former glory long since spilled on the Bootle battlefield

shows off its ability to send

out a message in Morse Code to anybody willing to listen.

 

The signal is kept going, the odd momentary lapse

where the wind blasts it up against the side of half

battered hedge, is all too brief. The tin can takes solace

against the side of the never knowingly used church,

except for the odd funeral and the lad from the next street over

whose drug habit is getting out of control, and prays a while

that the peas were not spilled in vein in the fight against the elements.

 

This empty can doesn’t rattle the most but its Morse Code message

goes unheeded and only segments catch the wind unawares.

. – -.  . – . . /  – – .   and yet nobody hears its strangulated S.O.S.

and call for help as its gets bashed and tossed against brickwork,

and broken pavements that lift up when you put your foot heavily upon them.

The sound suddenly ceases, even though the wind shakes its fist against

my windows. The tin now dies on a spike, the left over juice dripping to the floor.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.