CAFÉ

The flower garden at the back of the tea shop,
Is sickly-beautiful to my hungover eye.
Sunlight punctuates the dotty petals of Begonias,
Blue and white china vases hold roses,
Screaming out piercing loud blinding red.
Daffodils too, lemon yellow that shudder in orgasm.
I raise the cup, take a sip,
Gaze round the room at a man,
with grey hair reading a newspaper,
His face is purple and he is built like a bull,
Must be a solicitor, eats a lot of lobster and crayfish.
His eyes roll up to meet mine fractionally,
An expresion of interest and disapproval,
The usual response from men with efficient brains.
I look again to the garden, still intensely clear,
The Roses, sentences uttered by angels,
The Daffodils sweet hymns, rhapsodic, clandestine.
Such insane beauty, designed by God,
Makes my life worth living.
I catch the solicitor looking at me,
Probably wondering if I am a drug addict.
I don't believe in Peter's denial,
What is in my head is my secret.
“Flowers look nice” says the solicitor.