As far as winter afternoons go,
Not the best conditions for an epiphany.
The warm sun through a nippy breeze,
A cup of coffee fast losing steam,
A cigarette, stubbed half burnt, smoking itself,
To no one's amusement.
And she looks at cars go by,
Starting to speak, but holding the thought, till the moment passes.
It could have been a smile,
It could have been a song,
It could have been a convertible which I saw too.
It could have been the sun kissing the back of her neck.
It could have been a secret,
It could have been a confession.
She started to speak, but held the thought, till the moment passed.
And we were in a moment in history,
Which would not merit a line in a textbook,
Not put a nation at war,
Not break the heart of a queen.
A moment of pure peace,
Will find its way, falling like an autumn leaf,
Forgotten, insignificant.
Will look good on a greeting card,
Or in a montage of memories.
Like you, me and the man who drove that convertible.
A generation looking at cars go by,
Starting to speak, but holding the thought, till the moment passes.
