Stopping By Stuff . . .

Fly-tipping is a blight, a blot on the landscape and what's worse - in think you'd agree - fly-blogging is a blot on the blogscape.  So when I came across this fly-tipped couch/settee/sofa and easychair/armchair, depending on your country of origin and clahss -

 

 - I was (naturally) reminded (*) of a poem by Robert Frost, which I respond to here, prompted by this week's prompt on POEMS AND STORYTELLERS UNITED.

Whose couch is this?  I think it's lost.

Who chucked it out?  What did it cost?

It has not seen me stopping here.

It's arm-rest are all stiff with frost.

My little horse thinks I am queer

to stop because a couch is near.

He often does a double-take

when fly-tipped furnishings appear.

He gives his frosted rump a shake

to ask if I've made some mistake.

But frozen sofas make me weep.

I'd thaw them with a long, slow bake.

Its pattern's loverly!  Cushions deep.

A couch I'd really love to keep.

But - with miles to go before I sleep

I'll leave it for the rubbish heap.

(*) Not true!  In fact I stole if from another blog authored by a certain Dr.FTSE, who will - I know - forgive me because if he doesn't, he knows I'll tell all bogland WHO HE REALLY IS, WHERE HE LIVES etc etc!