Yet another piece on the English summer, least I’me conforming to a national stereotype !
Boy in the Cafe
It was packed, that haven from summer storm, on the sea front,
a few places left to sit, the flapping cafe door bearing the brunt
little room for the waitress to flit.
He could just be seen, by the corner window,a mop of blond hair,
a sad stare through glass, finger traced drops, looking at the Fair,
hoping the rain will quickly pass.
A cup of untouched Chocolate, on the table, near his empty seat,
too wet the playing field grass, redundant the football at his feet,
I say “Boy, the rain will quickly pass”.