They sat round the café table, the taste of bacon

catching on the rind and the steam of tea closing in

as if a London smog had suddenly descended

upon the fixtures, fittings and discarded

silver spoons laced with Dudley refinement;

they sat, slightly fidgeting, adults now, not children,

not children that were disgracefully made

to sit in a Salisbury Station and open presents

carried a few hundred miles on the back

of a broken dream,

adults now

but still

my boys.

 

The five breakfasts ordered,