Let the boy try. The chisel's edge is slid
into the crack. A few businesslike knocks
should do it. Gently now. The blistered lid
resists, resists. He levers at the box,

I hold it steady. (All day long they've worked
to sort Miss Mary's things. A magpie-nest
of clothes, toys, jewellery, papers, bills, that lurked
in bags, chests, cupboards, clocks; and with the rest

I'm told, the poet's letters, stuffed in absurd odd corners.
They asked us to have a go
at these old trunks and crates. Why she left word
the Scouts should open this, I'll never know.)

A splintering crack. It gives. A musty cover
of cloth, and under it the dull green
nubbed bulk of a fully-loaded revolver.
Army issue. Nineteen-seventeen.

Thirty corroded live rounds in a pouch
of mouldy leather. Gasping, the lads crowd in.
Treasure-trove! No. No: better not touch.
Steadying my hands, I pack the things again.

In mildewed lint and sour buttery tarnish
the huge unwieldy ghost of war is laid.
My fingers nearly slip on the dull varnish.
Lifting the box, I learn that I'm afraid.