of Saturdays with jam and cream

**

The Autumn sun is bright,
yet no heat
is carried on its' rays

All around the morning,
signs of an approaching Winter

The extra jumper I wear
(my fishing jumper)
offers no promise of warmth ~
too many holes for the wind to whistle

On the street
trees crackle in the crisp air
and chimney smoke,
too cold to unfurl,
lays like a sleepy lover
curled around the rooftops

The smell of pine is strong

Everywhere
shoulders are hunched inside jackets
with turned up collars

Coat pockets
cradle clenched fingers
in coloured wool
and pale faces hang
somber
from under lowered brims

I make my way to the coffee house

The aroma of roasting beans
heady perfumes
and freshly toasted bread
is warming,
like an open fire

The comfort of sound ~
soft rustle of newspaper page turning,
muted clatter of kitchen crockery ~
hiss of steam from coffee machine,
muffled conversations, and
stifled giggles
remind me
of Saturdays with jam and cream,

Of kohl rimmed eyes and
smokey lips stained red

Of a time
when the possibility of everything
lay open
and the delicate balance of promise
swayed before us,
shining,
like the polish of silver
on starched white linen

***