by Nick Gisburne
She sifts the sewage, scavenging for hate,
Through viscous pools of filthy, faecal slime.
She clutches, in a manic, frenzied state,
Already out of chances, out of time.
The undermaster’s patience growing thin,
He blows a long, reverberating note.
The whistle drives her fingers further in,
As brutal curses crackle in her throat.
At last, a touch, the barest brush of steel.
She cries, delighted, plunging through the piss,
To grasp the box, that cold, familiar feel.
A dismal day of darkness, all for this.
She marks the time, her seventh year of ten.
Tomorrow they will hide her food again.
