Breakfast in the Rain

He's a face in the wilderness,

She's a beautiful tree,

He's been painted by genius,

She was captured with love;

One painting,

One photograph,

Hanging in different rooms,

Connected by an untold story.

But there's more;

Go a bit further down the corridor,

you'll find the photographic portrait gallery.

Faces upon faces, rows of people,

Some look familiar,

All look so the longer we look at them.







Cut to a hotel restaurant.


The rain is pouring down the old bay windows,

Framed by the Wisteria's pendulous lavender racemes,

The table set for two,

The curved walnut backs of the Queen Anne chairs

polished, their golden yellow cushions plump,

their legs low and spread wide to accommodate your crossed ankles.

You can see yourself now,

Sitting, watching the rain, waiting.

You take your cup and sip,

The tea is delicate,

It's fragrance lost in your dreaming,

As you watch the rain falling.