Lamps flash, then murmur low, in the writer’s cafe.
A skirt of wind and rain slips in, new air --
We switch our eyes to meet a stranger’s face
with the naked ease of old lovers.
Last night a herald of doom marched past my bed,
keening for comfortable fools to confess.
This morning saw October’s bronzed laundry,
tossed down in slipshod piles of excess.
Fixed by bowls of pumpkin-thyme soup
or sourdough toasted with local cheese,
we cozy few at tables can’t conceive alarm,
we cuddle with laptops and leather diaries.
We know our history, we hold our place,
sip our minted tea and write or sketch.
Unflinched by pressured howls around us,
our glazed contentment perceives no threat.
published in 3 Elements