Poetry

Stig

Scales the fence when the rear

-lights of the attendants car

are swallowed by the corner’s

jut. A grubbiness permeates

his body, like pit-dirt gorged

on the miner’s calloused skin.

He sifts slowly in overflowing

skips and bins, the fragile

moonlight dressing their burst

innards in a silver tinsel trim.

His finds clutched to his chest,

he takes to his throne of car

parts, cardboard, television sets

and bed springs to survey

the wasteland: dog-eared fox

snug in the shadows, elegant

rats shot with speed, and stars

which died millennia ago

spilling their pin-prick memories.

King Stig: grease-stained

fast food wrappers his red

carpet, broken broom handle

the sceptre in his hand.

James Byrom