Gaslight

Soaked by a summer shower they ran from the last bus
past the rows of caravans, a gas cylinder fixed
on every one; she thought they looked like
chubby blue bombs waiting to explode. He reached
the door first, they laughed as he fumbled
with unfamiliar keys. Inside: a cheese sandwich
that never reached the beach, impressions
of holidaymakers past, ghosted into upholstery,
faint odours of butane and sunscreen.

She lifted the lamp-glass, struck a match, a low pop
as the fumes flared; watched as he took off
his wet clothes, while a glow of gaslight hissed
its ancient tale through the fragile lattice
of the powder-white mantle.