There’s a café down the hill
where I do my wistful Sunday dreaming
Sitting in the front bay window
hypnotised by raindrops
as they whisper against thin panes
I watch the people out in the street
pull their coats over their heads
and dash from shop to shop

Eavesdropping on the other diners
and the occasional glance towards the crossword
I let my mind wander freely
and chat with the wee...

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a Hopper in the making

I photographed

three lonely men drinking coffee

in  a coffee shop

how did I know they were lonely

they were straight out of an

Edward Hopper painting

like the people in “Night Hawks”

the light coming in the windows

reminded me of several of his paintings

of women looking out to bright light

that flowed in but brought no relief

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I used to hate this part of town
After London
it felt like stepping back in time
as if all our momentum to the capital 
had been lost
these shops with their hand-painted signs
I didn’t recognise the names
they’re not triplicated on every high street

And now I sit
in the Crooked Café
the waitress always tries to remember my ‘usual’
but I love that she never quite gets it right
gives u...

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It was all in her eyes

When he said

I

He saw the tear

When he breathed

L

O

V

E

He knew her mind

When he stopped

Outside the mist rolled in

As ropes slipped off bollards

When he left

He heard her say

M

Y

When the door slammed

He hoped she said

L

O

V

E

When he heard

It was all in his mind

Outside the engine sta...

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Black steel

curling wrought iron

balustrade

Beneath me

coffee steam

and noise

rise

and a poet

sits talking

animatedly

his foot jiggling

as he gesticulates

outside

autumn sun

shines on wet roofs

and casts

tree shadows

on house walls

outside

the sea is rising

while

London sinks

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It is a meeting place, this coffee house of ours

The atmosphere is friendly and relaxed,

And it is popular with everyone.

Its tables and the chairs are a mixture of styles and ages:

Metal or wood or comfy arm chairs, and benches

They must have come from an auction!

There is a full bookcase half way up the stairs

There are newspapers in a rack

Some customers read while they ...

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I’ve waited on platforms
For trains that never arrived
Drank shots in cellar bars
On Tuesday nights
With in-betweeners
Who still believe in lady luck

I’ve walked along promenades
Been battered by the wind and the rain
Taken shelter in late night café’s
Drank coffee so strong

It made me shudder
I’ve read the beat poets so many times
But I never tire of the words
Of Ginsberg and Ker...

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His name is Jeff.  He’s a chef.
How can you tell?  By his trousers of course.
When he puts on those checky trousers he’s no longer just Jeff,
But, Jeffry, like Mam used to scream, making herself hoarse
At his idleness, lethargy, laziness, now all in the past
Since a chef he’s become, even though it’s self-classed.

Doesn’t wear one of them tall ‘ats though.
He tried one.  Couldn’t...

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His name is Jeff.  He’s a chef.

How can you tell?  By his trousers of course.

When he puts on those checky trousers he’s no longer just Jeff,

But, Jeffry, like his Mam used to scream, making herself hoarse

At his idleness, lethargy, laziness, now all in the past

Since a chef he’s become, even though it’s self-classed.

Doesn’t wear one of them tall ‘ats though.

He tried on...

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