Crimson sinew of pummelled raspberries
And bittersweet citrus Squished and Oozed
To a sticky vibrant pulp
Glugs out of the carton marked
The juices rise to the rim
Slip down my throat;
I can feel the sharp tang fester and bloom
As the pith sinks to the bottom of the glass.
A midsummer haze later
And the Man and his autocue inform us
Of the car bomb in London.
He tells it like it is,
Black and white characters on a changing screen
The time, the place,
And that they didn’t go off.
Yet everywhere the nation freezes –
Then sighs as it melts back into lukewarm normality
Because this is reality
And in reality
These things never
But at the back of the mind
The suppressed fear of a nation lingers
As I decide I’ll have water, not juice, today.