Lunch

There’s a café that exists
In its own little pocket of space.
A café whose only regular customers
Are a coven of witches
Who meet once a week
To trade recipes that can heal the soul.
And you could learn their language
An hour at a time
While you eat your lunch
And drink your coffee.
You could eventually confess to them
That you’ve been calling to spirits
Who don’t respond
And they’ll reassure you
That’s faith.

An abandoned scout hall
Bricks stained by bore water.
A library whose stories
Have long been caked in dust.
The dead tree
that stands proudly
in the middle of the road.
The bitumen of an old tennis court
Cracked by plants sprouting from it,
Nets ripped and frayed.
And this is how it's been
for as long as any remember
unlivable,
unnavigable
for all but the fringe.

We're starting to rebuild,
My friends,
and me.
Resurrecting stories
stitching nets
building bird boxes.
Making this a place to sit,
to escape,
to learn.

I've been teaching
the language I learnt
pulling spells from the fringe
bringing magic to the waking world.
But here in this pocket
it is just me,
my friends
and the witches
sitting in this café