Steptoe's Yard

In Steptoe's yard
the grass now grows.
Where once upon a dream
the tall trees throws,
in shadows mist
and nettle beds
scrap steel, and brick, did rest their heads.
Among the tufts of think coarse weeds,
(with muddy patches in between)
the ivy bushes hugging tight
to rubble piles, in fading light
of dappled green on old white vans
algae smeered from lack of man
as bluebells spring between the stones
a broken chair sits like a throne
basking in thr suns soft glows
it's feeble purpose, now unknown
a useless relic no one owns.
Just like the yard, now over grown
devoid of all of mankinds woes
and we ask, is it better off this way?
now burning drums have lost their stay
and birds and crickets over thrown
all the pain and hunger man have blown.