Bin Round

It was best this time of year: long days, dry days, mostly.
Green mornings, loud with starling chatter
and the clatter of lids and the rustle of plastic
on our legs as we waddled through the gardens
like ruffled blackbirds, winged with binbags,
three or four on each tight-muscled, hard-handed,
flapping arm.

And our magpie eyes were always hopping round,
hoping for a trophy.

Black bags built our bodies, clothed us in the rain,
punctuated every morning:

dark dots and dashes in roadside piles.