Cafe at Crossroads

A desk jockey sits at a cafe, over looking a cross road, sipping his wine, savoring the aroma.

A warrior steps in from the dusty road, and casts a glance across the place.

Eyes meet, a nod is shared, the table is joined.

Cold beer and vintage wine they share, a quiet disdane and yet grudging respect for each other, in silence they sit, watching the cross roads.

A man wearing a jumper coloured like a bumblebee walks in looking lost, not a table he belongs to, the salary man stares on at the road, and with a slight flick of his wrist gestures.

The warrior stares with a steely gaze, but pushes a chair out with his boot and grunts to desk jockey, "a poet i betcha".

The officeman just smiles and without taking his eyes off the dusty trail answers "i think he needs a scotch"

The poet sits down and thanks the men for the seat, and then chatteringly begins to talk about his journey there, the other 2 sit quietly letting the words wash about them.

And they watch the road.

An odder trio you might never see. Sitting in a cafe, a pub, a bar overlooking the crossroads.

The day wears on and sunsets yonder, dinner is ordered and almost in one voice "Steak, medium rare"

The night wears on and still they chat in the night breeze, of war, of pain, of joy, of life.

suddenly, stillness falls upon the night, and the full moon breaks through the cloud cover.

As one they rise and look to the road.

Silent partings washed in silver, the men walk on.

The table is empty except for 3 shining bands.

Of silver beaten, imperfect beauty.
Of darkness banded, of strength embodied.
Of Light captured, in infinite splendor.