A Class of Its' Own

A class of its' own I sit deep in the shadows, watching and listening. Worn shoes silently shuffle , walking sticks, black frames, chairs with wheels, pushed or driven, converge on the High Street café, a playground for the elderly perhaps. A new March heralds a hint of spring while arctic draughts come and go at will and clouds gambol overhead like new born lambs looking for the sun. Slowly they gather, around pale wooden tables edged in chrome with legs weathered and stiff, warmly wrapped in dated coats hats and hoods and woollen gloves, bright scarves waving in the breeze. They sit, some with handbags on their laps, clutched like a first borne child ensuring cosiness against the chill. They were here yesterday and today, but what of tomorrow? Banter and chatter from a post war playground, classmates once again but with no class barriers to be seen. Accents and backgrounds blend and blur, a true geographical mix where time and tide converge like a backward flowing river in search of its' beginning. Cigarette smoke swirls skyward and hot drinks warm thin-skinned wrinkled hands. Humour falls on deaf ears and nodding heads Their laughter echoing of a life long lived and lost loves linger, waiting for the final bell to ring.