We've become such a coffee-mad society, and madly happy to shell out such an amount for a coffee compared to the price our neighbours in Europe hand across, the moment I saw my poet friend Roberto's latest verse, I knew I should share it here.
|Coffee time ... Chatting over a coffee is the popular way to enjoy the company of friends. Photo by Product School on Unsplash|
Not so long ago, the first spot for such an invitation might have been the local pub, or perhaps at a restaurant.
Now it seems de rigeur to make a coffee cafe the first choice.
A visit to Italy
Talented Roberto recalls a visit to Italy where, as we know, the coffee is a much more realistic price, and often seems tastier.
The verse recalls a visit to that extraordinary country of what one might think of as the originators of the fashionable drink.
Robert's message reads, 'Arrived at Roma Termini railway station, to a bar off the Via del Colosseo, a gladiator's trident throw from the Coliseum.
'Have you ever had a cup of coffee in Rome? If you have not been, I hope you do one day... in fact, it could be a cup of coffee anywhere in Italy, I think.
Bouncing off Rome
'I was bouncing off Rome at the time, en route to a working holiday (via HelpX), at Jenny's beautiful property, Villa Simonicchi, above the hamlet of Caprese Michelangelo, (where Michelangelo was born), where many people have enjoyed and enjoy staying.
'But it is the people we have met who make it all worthwhile, as well as the coffee, so a sensible and rightly memorable digression, like my train to Arezzo, by way of Rome.
'Thank you, Jenny, for this illustration.'
Roman Choral Symphony: Sing out
As airborne water rises, making fountains above the bright,
Stainless steel steam engines of Rome,
Passing the curling holiday postcards of long-vanished waiters,
And their sepia seraphim babies.
Above eternal bottles of Cynar and Vecchia Romagna,
As the newer drivers go about their business.
Determined percussion thuds of used coffee grains,
Being emptied from their shiny engines,
As newly ground Arabica fuel is loaded by the ageless aproned engineers,
With practised tum, to make their morning clouds,
All over the city.
Cymbals of cups and saucers, landing on the brass section of counter tops and each other,
A final timpani note of thin spoon on a china saucer side.
And then the quiet, local, small applause of sugar cubes unwrapping,
And the gritty clockwise stir to sweeten the day,
Heard only from above.
Then the quiet, private heaven of the morning caffe.
A choral symphony in four movements.
- Robert Graham