of saturdays with jam and cream

.


the sun is bright this autumn morn
yet no warmth
is carried on its rays

all around
signs of an approaching winter

the extra jumper i wear
(my fishing jumper)
offers no promise of heat.
too many holes
for the wind to whistle through

on the street
trees crackle in the crisp air.
i see the chimney smoke.
too cold to unfurl,
it lays like a sleepy lover
curled around its roof-top

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
sombre
from under lowered brims

i make my way to the coffee house

the aroma of roasting beans
and freshly toasted bread
is warming,
like an open fire

the comfort of sound-
soft rustle of newspaper page turning,
muffled clatter of glass and stainless steel
in kitchen,
hiss of steam from coffee machine,
hum of conversations, and
stifled giggles
remind me

of  saturdays with jam and cream.
of  kohl rimmed eyes
and ruby lips.

of sitting with Victoria

watching the muted autumn
fall across her face

lending it beautiful
in the fading light

.