by Simon Thomas
Their usual table, please, if it is free.
Of course it is – it always is
And everything always is, as is.
The plastic crocuses will never droop.
Her fingers snap in place onto his arm,
He feels them cold, yet gets in character,
And whispers lines he’s learnt by rote
And wears his father’s overcoat
And wishes he were in a ‘thirties film.
The clocks would always point to May
And flowers and incidental tunes
Played softly whilst Forever sits
In eyes and glorious grayscale sunsets.
Her eyelashes aren’t radiant,
His face is not a chiselled one
It never was, but winter’s light
Confirms autumn’s suspicions right,
Though quite the opposite was thought in spring.
A gentle thaw begins to spread;
Her icicles will split in two.
A spiteful thaw begins to spread;
Then winter leaves them both alone.
Simon Thomas is a trainee librarian, obsessive reader, and amateur book critic from the middle of nowhere. To the literary community he is better known as Stuck In A Book. He once appeared on Countdown and won’t let anybody forget it.