In a glamourless English version of Eward Hopper's night café,
An ancient waitress presents a bewildered customer with
An enormous bowl of peach melba,
Dollopped overgenerously with synthetic cream.
She smiles the tiredest of smiles and fades away.
The customer who has no memory of how he came to be in the café
(Maybe he was always there)
And is fairly sure that he did not order the unappetising dessert,
Can't bring himself to complain,
And, stoic to the core, he reminds himself
That we must all be, or at least pretend to be,
Grateful for what we are given.
Little silver moon bear
With no moonbeams left to climb,
Huddled in a doorway
Running out of time.
Nelson on his column in the dead deserted square
At two o' clock in the morning under a starless, godless sky,
Jerking suddenly from sleep, turns his stoney collar to the icy wind.
Fine feathered friends all flown,
Valiantly battling with vertigo.
Disjointed images drift through the customer's mind as he struggles
To catch th