Mud

In old London the Thames used to be muddy, not muddy like the Mississippi, but the mud of the drowned, murdered, and of long lost dreams. On gray dawns scrawny kids would sift through the detritus that washed up on its stony riverbank, small objects that belonged to the once living. Sometimes a good ring or wristwatch would be fished out of the effluvium, more often rags, chicken or rat bones. Those who once stood beside these dark waters may have looked deeply into them as if despairingly predicting cold malnourished hands scooping up their dreams to be sold for pennies.