Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

The problem setting tomorrow’s coffee today is always doing it too late at night. The blinking ever-confident coffee machine doesn’t appreciate my plight. Aghghgh, caffeine!

“Mocha please”                                      “Cheese?” “A mocha.”                                           “Americano.” “No.”                                                    “Do you want to order something?” “A mocha please.”                   ...

Think… Maybe too tired to think; Could go into the kitchen; drink All bitter dark Deep-scented coffee brewing; Burbling sound Evoking stomach gurgle. Blink… Renewing secret longing, tells Of warming chocolate smell Smooth-flowing silver round the tongue; Silkily melts; Well-harbored scent belongs To sleep, Sweet-dreaming deep And dark Like coffee.

They stood round the counter drinking wine, discussing beer. “Porters are good.” One listed all the local brews while the other compared them with nationals, a language of their own. Then strangers arrived and talked of smooth and smoky, spicy and strong. They meant the wine; it has its own words too. They drink. I drive. Wine-tasting tour; of course, they insulted my driving all the way. You could get an elephant into that gap, or a train, but I’m okay. We ended at a farm with fresh-roasted coffee as well as wine. Another language, and it’s mine this time.

We gather round the dining table; Mum with her tight dark curls at one end, then me and my brothers, then Dad. I’m hoping my older brother won’t start a row. He and Dad always argue politics over fish’n chips on Saturdays, but this is Sunday and we’ve been to church. Coffee’s hot in the tall green pot, elegant, smooth-lined, smooth-scented with the warmth of hot milk. Dad pours into tiny cups. He mixed instant with the real stuff once when we ran short; a heresy worse than religion or politics. The sun shines, shading my memories coffee-brown and sweet.