04-19-2017, 06:42 AM
My favourite story
Will be written by a man with a limp
who only writes in the mornings
when the light fills his study.
He hobbles down a cobblestone path
to buy fresh pastries and strong coffee,
always say good morning to a lady watering
her flowers who only smiles, then answers
himself yes I'm fine, how are you?
He works with an old typewriter
and inks the ribbon each day
his desk has a brown leather inlay,
the edges are dented and scuffed.
It has a drawer with pencil shavings
in the corner, a dictionary for when
the words aren't sharp enough.
When he finishes a chapter
as a treat he takes a cream tea
under his favourite tree
and watches the swallows
long into the afternoon.
His face has lines, eyes are kind
with a thought he takes a journey
beyond the pain in his leg
around the agapanthus out
through the open window
to travel across the downs,
running like a child along
the edge of the beach,
he cries when he types,
and stops to wipe his glasses.
Will be written by a man with a limp
who only writes in the mornings
when the light fills his study.
He hobbles down a cobblestone path
to buy fresh pastries and strong coffee,
always say good morning to a lady watering
her flowers who only smiles, then answers
himself yes I'm fine, how are you?
He works with an old typewriter
and inks the ribbon each day
his desk has a brown leather inlay,
the edges are dented and scuffed.
It has a drawer with pencil shavings
in the corner, a dictionary for when
the words aren't sharp enough.
When he finishes a chapter
as a treat he takes a cream tea
under his favourite tree
and watches the swallows
long into the afternoon.
His face has lines, eyes are kind
with a thought he takes a journey
beyond the pain in his leg
around the agapanthus out
through the open window
to travel across the downs,
running like a child along
the edge of the beach,
he cries when he types,
and stops to wipe his glasses.
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out