An old attempt at narrative poetry....

My Dark Café Days in Red Lion Square

I walked the streets of Holborn,

In a wondrous daze,

My darkened suburbs

Became bright city ways.

Stumbling across Red Lion Square,

Three figures, in low wooden chairs,

Drinking coffee, looking effortlessly

Debonaire –

A Frenchman, café owner and a female failed poet,

Were soon to lighten my load, although I did not yet know it.

“Come”, said the café owner,

Pulling out a chair, gesturing, “Please come over,

Tell me of the lines on your face.

Are they shadows from our bright city sun,

Or old worry that has been misplaced?”

Without a moment’s pause, I sat down,

Tried to hide my natural frown,

And here it is, in shrunken word,

The story that my strangers heard:

I told him of travels far and wide,

That were soon to come,

And of the boy by my side.

With pride, but also with a strange, uncontrollable woe,

For I still had far to go

Before I would become content with my lot,

Would this be love be forever, or the one I forgot?

“Please” said my companion, lacking eloquence or grace,

“Now trust my tone, ignore the shade of my face,

For your speech, rather than make me cry

Fills me with envy. Now I cannot lie,

Pretty girls like you never truly die

In the hearts of boys and in young men’s eyes.

You may feel lonely for a while,

But fears and tears will hide your smile”.

Drawing back from me one last time, he asked,

“Would you like some more coffee?”

Although divine,

I declined,

With places to be, people to see,

And elders words to ponder.

I left the cafe, my friend, the Frenchman and poet,

And wandered across London town.

Barely knowing it, but with a lighter air

For once - not a frown.

May 2006