losticini

Christmas silence.
Against my books and softened
by the warm dust of this little room
my messenger bag, like a poacher's purse
tugs at its leather straps and tautens them.

The memories trapped inside
were hot and heavy once,
running a summer day up on Greenwich hill.
Dried out now, they seem to be
two tickets for the water bus, nestling
in the bag's dark pouch.

Beside them, fragile and slowly peeling,
a tiny chocolate heart loses its crimson foil.