Tim Riding Poet Free verse

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.

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