by Nick Gisburne
Along the filthy river, near the docks,
Two mudlarks labour, scavenging for scraps,
But neither sees the battered metal box,
The lettering, the leather of the straps.
Inside it, secrets, soiled by tides and time,
Forgotten, under centuries of silt.
The two, content to stumble in the slime,
Are blind to what such wisdom might have built.
More precious than the world could ever know,
The secrets of the box, the prize inside,
Uncovered by the river’s falling flow,
In minutes will be swallowed by the tide.
Delighted by the artifacts they find,
They have no sense of what was left behind.
