Ambre Solaire

Solitary bottle on the back shelf of the bathroom cabinet,

sat there untouched for ten solid years.

Bought by some wistful, wishing parent who thought a holiday

was possible for the likes of us.

But we went nowhere, except occasional screaming daytrips

that were better off forgotten.

The bottle sat there and never went off, like a nuclear promise

(no use by dates in the 1970s).

An unbroken seal (but broken deal?), 

cynically promising a far off suntan

that never came to pass.

It was spotted at last and laughed at

behind Andrew's Liver Salts and the pale blue cup

where dad stored slivers of soap for his shaving brush.

Before I threw the bugger in the bin, I opened it

and sniffed in the exotic promise,

factor thirty faraway legends.