sat on the place, it was last left down.
Days and nights passed, seasons too.
It sat in rain and when skies were blue.
Seeing the odd cow, graze and move on, and foxes and badgers at night until dawn.
It saw children walk by, growing old
As it sat unmoved, out in the cold.
It once fed a family, a short time spent.
Then off with a child, the little tin went.
She left it here, on an old wooden stake
and never again, a visit did she make.
But this tin is happy, a good life it's had.
Sat on this stake, no reason to be sad.
A longer life it's lived, than any another tin.
Now isn't that much better than going in a bin?
