The rain buckets down as I run from street to cafe,
through grey skies to a grey interior,
stepping sideways into steampunk and smokey steerage.
In the month since I was last in here, there have been changes;
small soft armchairs replace some of the uprights,
a coffee table the kitchen style one at the rear.
The wide windowsill and woven sacking snug is still there.
It has drip cones strung with tiny lights above,
A nod to the season. Yule for you.
First to coffee,
The point for the risking of tech to weather,
for no waterproofing would withstand that for more than a few.
A swift aeropress made volcanic-tinged espresso and then, awoken from my street sleep,
the same Venezuelan steeped via v60, with va-voom but not so violent.
I sniff the smell of grinding, gladly glimpse filter,
feel the heat of steam and hear accompanying drip, drop, plip, plop
as the grounds move from dry to wet and the water takes on the emulsion, the oils.
And. I. Breathe
and sip and sigh and bliss is upon me.
I may. Just.
Sit in this chair with pencil and paper until later;
or until, I , for lack of other sustenance
just exhale my last...
...the last 200, a whole year done.
From grey skies through snow and sun
a return to grey
a million words