Their gentle voices filled the spaces beneath the arches -
When he walked in a different world, my dad had first taken me here -
We'll go up to the Smoke he'd said -
He'd sat here, over the polished bones, The Times folded up in his raincoat pocket -
Later, we'd looked at Seurat's Bathers at Asnieres in the National Gallery -
Now, wearing a faded coat, I remembered those moments here -
The worn stone beneath my feet was the same -
There were the names I'd read - they were still there -
But the chair next to me was empty -
The man who might sit upon it had become invisible -
All that was left of him was a shape made of air and memory -
Friday 18 March 2016
Cafe in The Crypt
St Martins in the Fields
London
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