Barefoot in the Café


She dreamt she was a poet, in the café in the park,
Sitting barefoot at her table, drawing poems rich and dark,
With the daylight folded round her like some great celestial choir,
Playing curling staves of rhythms to ignite her inner fire.
While the afternoon grew colder she wrote down her trembling past,
In the golden light of autumn leaves now falling thick and fast.
And she buttered down her broken soul on teacakes with a knife,
Having pencilled full her notebook with her past art deco life.


22 responses to “Barefoot in the Café

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