Not on my knees with head all bound in thorns, not in a pew prostrate before a god, not stooped, nor bent, a sinner supplicant, a poor unworthy man afraid to say: Like as the eagle soars astride the wind, like as the river flows from spring to sea, like as erratic stands upright and firm, a worthy creature proud to stride the land.
No more a child beset with guilt and shame, but grown attentive to the joy of light, humble as dust and underwhelmed by night, a star that shines and whispers love to all.
We move in prayer, our talent in our verse, we celebrate in time the universe.
It is illegal to smoke (mince pies) in these premises,
We will re-open (cream) on Friday 28th at 08:26,
W(h)ines by the bottle,
we sell (humour) gift vouchers.
I sat beside the bag lady preventing her overcoat from being (whipped) cream.
Richard’s ebony hair glistened with perspiration, behind candles that dripped red calcified wax to a fine point suspended over pastry laced with sugar water.
His smile reflected from the surface of a teaspoon that had never seen a better day – just as the jigsaw, fixed to the glass that protected the map of the island, cast shadow over Cork
– just as the woman of the house squeezed a clothes-horse under the reindeer’s bauble.
“I’m going to Jackson … “ reminded me of Tammy Wynette and Santa’s brother, last seen outside Boise wielding a pickaxe and shovel wanting work whenever women would watch him waffle on about “the land of many waters”.
Idaho Cafe is deeper than the Grand Canyon in affections, and shorter in afflictions because bunyons are bound to blush unseen under square tables.
‘This is forever”, every mince pie, Esto Perpetua, there is no Dracula here, Huckleberries cry.
A locally-owned Breakfast, Lunch, Bapini, Sweet fix, with drinks like Idaho americano, espresso, cappuccino, marshmallow – lest you go past the best cafe in Ireland (voted by aficionados) without noticing blackboards full of chalked wines