Coffee with rain
It’s 12.14 in the afternoon and even though it’s spring, the dogwood tree has blossomed, illuminating us inside and out, rain is on duty.
Mr. Morley has just bought a new notebook and is testing it with a pencil. He left his fountain pens in the office to rest, dolce far niente, from the Essay on Bookstores.
He writes, his mind looking somewhere else::
You climb the rolling hilly blue,
dive into ecstasy,
feel the salty chill embrace…
A word from Chaucer comes to him. He pencils it out. Then rewrites it. He lights his pipe, with Haverford tobacco. Clouds rise fragrantly, mingle with the rain, play hide and seek. His cafe table, covered by weather, not by thoughts. They bring him coffee, steaming, telling stories. He puts his hand into his jacket pocket and takes out Boswell’s small volume. Enters a familiar London, tender and rough at the same time. The rain thickens. Ah, perfection.
(Christopher D. Morley: born, 5/5/1890)
Emfron
