Tea at the Village Green

It is thus always—

a sun chilled day on the coast,

freighters seventeen miles out

in the shipping lanes, and backdrop fog beyond—

so far it seems lost.

Yet here, in this cozy nook,

you across the table sipping tea,

I spreading lemon curd

on a crumpet, the rashers

of bacon still sizzling on the plates;

while beyond the window, the village green,

ring-billed gulls and pigeons

passing on their separate errands,

the cafe buzzing with clinking plates

and drifting words:  “and then,”

“…you would never believe…”

“…that’s what she said…” “…so I went…”

and the waitress’ cherry “…very good…”

“…an excellent choice…” “…I’ll be right back…”

and the clatter of dirty dishes beyond the kitchen door.

Strange how my mind recalls

all these things when all I noticed

at the time was you,

framed by the window pane,

as if stepping from a Thayer painting.

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