The Black-Cap Cafe Poem by Gordon R Menzies

A lone table, wisteria white
in dusk drawing near, under
three green spruce, at the
Black Cap Café, your
white hand there, unmoving,
an unopened letter, waiting
for my withheld caress, as
dim August stars attend
in earnest for a meeting
of our eyes, but my eyes
not rising from your hand
see Black-Caps flitting
in their corners, at dusk
calling with piping song
from sap-sweet branches,
they drink of beaten copper,
they drink and we drink
and I, lost in adoration
of your pale loving hand,
know in my whisky heart
these are not birds,
but words for you, that
mouths cannot make,
that mine cannot make,
at dusk, under stars,
at the Black-Cap Café