I collected two more bags of trash
On my walk today.
Stuff folk, unthinking, careless,
Chose to throw away‡
Into hedgerows on the public path
Oblivious of the aftermath.

‡’Away’ is, to me, a foreign land
It’s not a place I’d like to live
It’s dirty, smelly, squalid, vile:
Banish litter-louts there offhand
Their actions are tough to forgive
They make me quite hostile.

A crisp packet.
A plastic bottle.
A beer can.
A biscuit wrapper.
A covid mask.
… A thermos flask? (No kidding.)
Collect the lot; stuff it in the sack;
Round, and round, and round again.
It’s a tedious, never-ending task:
On the next pass, more is back.

It’s a thankless chore, it’s true:
The trash continuously accrues.
You may say, “Why bother?”
And I hear you.

I don’t do it for me.
(My time is almost up.)
I don’t do it for you.
(Although, in a way, I do.)
I don’t do it for my progeny.
(Of those I have none.)
Nor do I do it for yours.
(Assuming you have some.)

I do it coz
I’m sick and tired
Of seeing filthy crap
Everywhere I look.
In undergrowth;
Lodged in trees;
‘Hidden’ in bushes;
Floating in the brook.

So,
In a way,
I guess I do do it for me,
As this is what I much prefer to see: