Dreck

In the alley where the night smells faint,
Lies a heap of dreck—discarded, bent,
Torn pages, broken toys, and rusted tin,
A motley chorus of the things we’ve binned.

Each scrap a whisper of forgotten pride,
A coffee‑stained receipt, a shoe‑lace untied,
Flickering wrappers that once held sweet delight,
Now sighing low beneath the pale moonlight.

We kick them aside, call them worthless junk,
Yet in their chaos a strange beauty’s drunk—
For dreck reminds us what we choose to keep,
And what we toss aside while dreaming deep.

So let the gutters hold their grimy treasure,
A mosaic of the flawed, the worn, the measure—
In Britain’s streets, where fog and rain convene,
Even dreck can wear a quiet, humble sheen.