|Long Way From Queen Street|
Back there the city noise and crying children, and people buying things they didn't need. Here, in our cafe just one man reads the paper, turning pages with a rustle like a falling leaf. In the kitchen through the rows of beads, [do they still have those?] the sound of lowered voices. At our table by the window just your eyes only your eyes telling me about your lifetimes in the spaces before 'us' And your hand gently over mine warm, fingers moving softly, speaking all our coming days without words. Pam C.
| Poetry Index | Home |