On winter trees loud with anthracite crows,
The ice white ripples on a cold shallow lake;
The dance of snowdrops in the cottage meadow -
Not on hipster life in Kreuzberg Berlin - the snake man
Easing dollars from slobs on Venice beach. Nor would I
Grab a hat to snap Soho in the rain, rowdy pubs
Loud as Hell in Borough Market; punters sweating pints
on the Cam or Isis.
No - but I would rather be in rural Ireland
Far from the crowds at any time of year - snug in the
coffee shop -
The Black Lion miracle.-Rock crystals on the counter that
glitter in the sun,
A winter sun bright as morning dew.
And there`s an off white sofa deep enough to sleep in,
Books to buy and cakes of many flavours - colours too
because aesthetics are important.
To make the perfect coffee it must be shown to be an art. -
Or across the border in Fermanagh buying
Apples and spuds and greens from that farmer up the hill.
His yard is as mucky as the coffee shop is spruce. -
This is the world I could live in, commemorate in black and
white,
But recall in perfect colours. Here where I am at home, loved
Respected. Not merely a pale face passed in the Underground.-
An image that fades in an instant as the travelers rush by.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
27th. 28th. February - March 4th.- 18th. 2025.
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