[Poem read at Walpole Old Chapel annual reading by Suffolk Poetry Society members]

In midsummer the binmen come early:
I hear the sound of shelling down the street
or at the edge of town –
the thunder, then a dragging sound
like bodies, dead weight –
as I lie with empty head in bed: 

People fall asleep
while my dreams are emptied
mixed with foreign nightmares 
and driven away

I feel relatively clean
under the power of the yellow sun –
the blue, blue sky –
but somewhere all that anger
is being emptied
hidden away, destroyed:

I wait for the fallout
the shouting
something breaking through
the fabric of my existence

Eventually I look outside:
the bins are scattered aimlessly along the naked path
empty of intent: 
I breathe deeply,
never wanting
to do anyone
any harm 

then, later,
hide them 
in the garden