Junk by Rae O’Dowd

Junk


This is a graveyard for broken things.


Scratched-up cassette tapes and punctured tyres and dulled rainbow shards of stained glass from moss-covered God-forsaken cathedrals;
Unspooled rusted wire and torn cotton quilts from empty cribs and seared flea-ridden fabric-shrouded seats out of burnt-up worn-down trucks;
Ivy-blanketed Ferris wheels and dust-claimed sepia photographs or long-dead men, and cracked-skull faded-paisley-wearing one-legged china dolls left behind from picnics in the grass of the banks downstream.


Eerie nostalgia and weather-beaten fragments of days gone by are not shadowed by polished new primary-coloured cars or drowned out by laughing children’s shiny echoing bicycle bells in this place.


It is quiet here.

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