Hunkered down on the kerb
the deep dank smell
as you hover over
the slotted stank
waiting your turn
gaze fixed on the glassy eyeballs
glinting with a wink of colour

Some days you fill your bag,
swinging home to the dull click clack
of glass on glass
or you’re left with nothing
but that ferrous odor 
on your hands that clings
with its tang of blood.

It’s all about
the twist and the flick
about winning and losing,
lessons that only
the street can teach.
But not for my children.

For them it’s the  bright
plastic marble run
set out on the rug
the gentle tumble of glass
like summer rain on the roof
the soft landing.


Jorries = glass marbles

Stank = drain in a gutter 



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