It was Friday in late summer, over two years since I first entered my green place and Dad was finally coming home the next day. I was glad it would be a Saturday; we always listened to the Football Results together and still do that tomorrow. Although we would never kick a ball around again.
I went to the dump sensing it would be for the last time. It turned out to be a strange, magical day. Standing on its highest point surveying my little domain, everything seemed beautiful, sad and different. A ring of cerulean cloud set with silver gulls had formed over the docks and the tug boats wailed mournful from down river. An old crippled rat tottered close to me and sat there unafraid. I gave it some of my half eaten Wagon Wheel and stroked its head, then I saw something I have never witnessed before or since; Hundreds of rats moving as one. Like a graceful grey magic carpet skimming over the green valleys. I fancied the display was just for me. There was an eerie stillness, the distant noisy docks fell silent and the seagulls ceased their shrill. The sky darkened over the river and thunder rumbled around the dump. Fork lightening lanced the black clouds and torrents of rain lashed the land. I stood high over my little kingdom soaking, smiling and weeping, aware something special was happening to me but not understanding.
I never went back. I expect they are all gone now, my dump, the corner pubs, cobblestones and corrugated iron.
I hope Toad and Ratty had a good life.
Often over the years I heard stories about a weird solitary child who roamed Beckton Dumps.
Sometimes he would be an orphan gypsy or even the ghost of a boy who died there. I used to wonder why I had never seen him until I realised it was probably me, still I was happy to be a part of the local folk lore.
In one corner of my small piece of land there is a heap of rubbish and soil. I leave the Bellbind to grow there and in summer it's covered in white flowers.
I call them 'Lily of the Valley'.
The End.
TOM MAY
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