There’s a café down the hill
where I do my wistful Sunday dreaming
Sitting in the front bay window
hypnotised by raindrops
as they whisper against thin panes
I watch the people out in the street
pull their coats over their heads
and dash from shop to shop

Eavesdropping on the other diners
and the occasional glance towards the crossword
I let my mind wander freely
and chat with the weekend waitress
We swap ideas, turns of phrase and lines
whole paragraphs, sometimes
I trade her trinkets of my experience
for another cup of her warming wisdom

She’s writing a book of fantasy
she tells me of the long ships and the islands
and the lore that she’s been weaving
And of books beyond this book, her vast ambition
We talk of creativity, so mischievously
laughing too often and too loudly
like children down behind the garden wall
so dangerous and exciting

Some days, she’ll look a little longer
into these sea-hued eyes
And, telepathically, I will her thumb
to brush my trembling finger
as she hands me a fresh pot of tea
There’s a forlorn look that we both share
our golden rings glinting
in the pale afternoon light

Our goodbyes, always drawn out
until I pull the trigger on my umbrella
I’ll be brimming with all the thoughts
spun from our conversations
Buoyed by the gaze of her bright eyes 
that follow me from the window...
 

[2023]