They'd never dredged the like of it:
a mound of lego, sodden books
and posters, toys, pig-Latin plaques,
ceramic shards that once were mugs
and, threaded through the seeping haul,
scarves of scarlet, bootleg yellow and
authentic gold, a bolognese
of guilty conscience - things
they'd not be seen with down the tip.
'They must have done it in the dark,'
one muses, 'were they queueing up
or side-by-side lined down the quay?
Bet no-one met another's eye.
Was it like this when Jimmy died?'
An older head shakes. 'Nowt to chuck
except the medals. Few enough
of those about. And shellsuits could
be scouser costumes. Nowt like this.'
They sat there silent, paced and smoked.
The youngest spat: 'They must have known.'
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