The blown out shell of the bus

on route past Euston Station

is quiet and still now, destroyed a second

time to wipe out the memories of the act of barbarism

that took life, that took lives

in the space of a single moment in time

and the London streets fell victim one by one.

 

The television screens, the minds of the ordinary

London folk were still reflecting on what

it meant to have the world watching

their city five years later,

the beauty of togetherness, of games played;

never realising that the game had come five years early

and the world was already here.

 

The rise of the sun that day

brought London to its knees for a while

and the laughter of the insane,

of the desperate and the unfeeling

raining down upon the A to Z route map

and the Tube covered now in the quiet

of the siren filled mourning.

 

Dedicated to the People of London.

Ian D. Hall 2015.