The best place to think about things is in a cafe. Although I’m having to cut back on my all too frequent pit-stops because of the cost – everything is more expensive nowadays – and my expanding waistline. Despite that I stopped a few days ago for a cuppa. And I jotted this poem down.
Come on God So, come on God where are you? Reveal yourself as I sit here, in this café chomping cold tea and sticky toffee softness. You’ll say you wear the faces of the people and the kids I see – you’re already here you’ll say in the mother with the stripy top and the old woman rushing to the toilets and the redhead in her sleeveless anorak and the men with walkers particularly the one whose face has lost its life. You’ll say it’s in reaching out to these people that I’ll find you. So, come on God, show me again how suffering should be done how it’s not so bad when the café is full of others trying to keep a tight hold on life, like me, despite everything.
WriteShed 