Like a old friend who’s seen the sights
Sitting in a cafe to talk
Winter chills, from the right
Coats thick and the sanguine coffee strong. Lark at the magpies preparing their best nests.
Some of the paint has crumbled, like that old face you know so well.
Mossy hair, growing in defiance to the years, spitefully grey.
Clasping the the cup, like a trickle of a stream in a long dry winters night.
Busking death away, his songs are old and full of ttr memories of the places his been.
It’s a place you go, a place you chat, a place you would call the heart. A city like this, beats like a old trackers farts. It would trundle along, keep going, keep fighting.
This man is old and cold though. I’m not sure if he will survive the next summers fires. They come all the time now.
I stare at the cup and think how much he’s enjoying it. It’s the last month of winter, and he knows it all to well.
That sanguine coffee is a sign of things to come