They sat round the café table, the taste of bacon

catching on the rind and the steam of tea closing in

as if a London smog had suddenly descended

upon the fixtures, fittings and discarded

silver spoons laced with Dudley refinement;

they sat, slightly fidgeting, adults now, not children,

not children that were disgracefully made

to sit in a Salisbury Station and open presents

carried a few hundred miles on the back

of a broken dream,

adults now

but still

my boys.

 

The five breakfasts ordered,

the stream of thought

of conversation,

of jibber jabber poking a stick

through the blind misty eyed smog

and the clatter on the oddly

patterned floor

of a fallen silver spoon,

of the discussion of the days to come,

of words meaning nothing

signifying so much…

 

I missed these days with all my heart,

I missed them, my boys

and as the mist

fought valiantly to be broken apart,

I knew I could not cope

to see the day when they left

to find their own

Silver Spoon in which to

while away the day.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015