Journal's Entry

Inside a café, from a worn torn place:

Balanced on upturned palm and held high one has to sigh in amazement that even in these anguished times you manage to glide like a ballerina ‘tween your chipped tile topped tables. Perhaps to an imaginary adagio where the tempos set and with lyricism your hips dip to your own metronomes click with not a drop spilt from the glasses full of illusion, using the term illusion lightly as by contrast in distrustful times can so often bring euphoric disillusion. 

To understand the hardship of life here is hard. And so to respectfully observe your selfless poetical grace, your smile and general bonne-amie of which you reserve for all to see; when deep within, like all in this nerve twisting place you must feel that tonight, tomorrow may never come. But to digress and to confess it’s easy to succumb to terrifying thoughts, however, this evening outside the café the sound of the guns have stopped, and since daybreak no bombs have dropped, for now, at least…here’s hoping tonight we can rest tired eyes, hopefully sleep in peace.

© Julian Clarke 2016