Morning Blues of London
Morning Blues of London
by Steven Cooke
I see reflections in the window,
My coffee, my only friend.
Waiting for my journey to begin.
My suitcase, my only possession.
Yesterdays clothes, yesterdays photos,
Yesterdays dreams, all packed neatly for yesterdays man.
The whistle, slowly we move off,
Leaving yesterdays life.
As I ponder through my window,
I hear the track mocking,
“It’s all your fault”, “it’s all your fault”, “it’s all your fault”.
No peace for yesterdays man.
We pass fields of lavender, a reminder of when love was sweet.
I see fields of barley, and hay bales,
Where forbidden love was born,
Then ploughed fields, the furrows of betrayal,
Raking through my soul.
We pass a ruined castle, my dreams my hopes, all perished there.
Swept away by the forces of passion,
Crumbling the walls of yesterdays love.
My window of torment, reveals all. “please go away”
For I want Today’s window,
But my confession, rapes my mind.
You see my wife loves another,
My neglect, my fault, all the judges agreed.
Into a tunnel, a respite from all this.
A moment’s darkness.
Alone again, with my coffee.
I’m still, rolling down the track of despair,
The guard announcing the next station.
“All change at Piccadilly,”
“Connections for nowhere and oblivion”
“Platform Three”.
A rush of bowler Hats cram the doors,
Anonymous souls leading anonymous lives.
And me, with my cup of coffee, alone with the window,
I see reflections once more.
I lay my pen down,
And I Thank god that’s not me.
Oh how I hate Monday mornings.
Time to leave.
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