The Bottle Collector

The puzzled, expecting look of a ferret; down the bin a treasure of headstruck bees and sticky paper. Each bottle, the promise of a few coins, of late gulleted and clear. Pictures of jovial rum islands and sorts of laughing deer. Torn into sadness, he roams motorway toilets and the black seas of carparks, angular, zebrine. He looks and looks and looks taking time like a casual lover in for the taking, the pull. This is heaven. Hands down into the rest. The weight of long, cold glass. More of a miracle. More of a miracle.