The Bomb
It ticks, it sits like spit on a coat.
The flap is up, and photos are at home:
a left envelope between the cruet.
We make a rather perfect pair
to spend a nice forgotten hour,
unclaimed, amid the furled urning steam
tannin as the walls of the railway buffet.
Stabbing the crumbs on the plate,
the tealeaves tell to look, so I do.
No note.
The crimped edges of the pictures
and the yellow tone hint of summer,
glossy summer,
two children, a boy and a girl, with spades
kneel smiling by a four bucket sandcastle;
flagged and shelled, damped moated.
A suited father eats ice cream.
The mother, with an elaborate permanent wave,
her hand beneath her chin, as she
is joyfully caught with an eclair.
No note, just three photographs, fading
to sepia.
No one died.
The last crumb on the plate, still carries
the crystalline crunch of Bath buns.
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