On their first meeting she kept stopping
to point out churches. At the time
he couldnt understand why.
He tried to laugh, make small talk,
win the day, but instead she sat still
as death, her eyes glued to a lone steeple.
The lunch, of course, didnt make
it any easier. Though the food was fine
enough. It was what youd call
a mis-match and neither knew whether
to leave or stay. There was just that
enveloping silence, and when the waitress
finally arrived and tipped their coffee
down their laps, it was most definitely over.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Mark Pirie would be
pleased to hear from you.