Today’s prompt was to write something inspired by one of a selection of old news stories. The one I chose is in the image shown.

Christmas wasn’t even over.  He didn’t

ask why the tree was no longer wanted –

the young man had avoided his eyes.

Besides, who had the time for talk

at this time of the year, with the constant

inward flow of old sofas and tables

to make way for newer, fresher, better.

He saved it from garden waste oblivion

and set it up beside the hut with a

string of reclaimed yellow lights and

some baubles which hadn’t made it

to the glassware bin.  The needles were

already dropping but the branches were

still green.  The stream of cars slowed and

then stopped altogether as the December

light fell.  He felt his breath return. 

Stretched his arms and legs; he

was definitely too old for this.  Took a

sip from the flask and looked at the

yellow glow spidering across the tree.

The sun vanished behind the steel roof.

Sometimes you didn’t have to look hard

to find beauty, he thought.  Sometimes

it came to you in the form of an unwanted

spruce, a castaway miles from any kind of forest.