London Fog: An Ode to Bloomsbury

Do you know, unwitting dears,

that Bloomsbury coffee cups have ears?

Chatter, clang, goes their gossip,

as they bathe in foamy sinks,

after carrying our drinks,

hushed and posed, letting us sip,

paying heed to our addiction

to the soft marshmallow tip

of latte-ed beans - that once were cupped

by seasoned working hands - now fuel our

aching laughing chatter,

feminisms overrule our

careful chiseling at matters

entertained by our vocation

for illuminating puzzles:

philosophic penetration

while our musings of the dreamy ilk

that dare to fantasise and chase,

are kept in clouds of woven silk -

so pretty in their hiding place -

like tea bags clotted in frothed milk

but all of that, the cups can hear.

if you only knew, my dear…

Your fingers hold, tight and taut,

our twisting, tessellating thoughts

marked 1-8, red and blue,

black, green, unfold our clue…

our origami fortune jeu

to Bloomsbury we’ve done the same,

folded, jigsawed, notched its plain,

schisms deepen, feelings wane,

back, forth, clasp, unclasp again

its café-circuits will remain

the theatre for our dainty game

Virginia Woolf, her sculpted head,

holds us in a yawning smirk,

do we confess? seek her approval?

when in Tavistock we lurk

she watched us trot, our bouncing steps,

like Minerva from her marbled throne

gazed on our linked arms, bobbling heads,

tipped hats that were, in flurry, strewn,

left in a vegan hip tea-room,

to trail the town we’d leave next noon.

A teaspoon - nobler secret-keeper -

picks up sounds like conch seashells,

but pressed upon your eager ears,

its cold steel shoulder never tells.

Lean in, our unsuspecting dears,

when cups in Bloomsbury draw you near,

our truths and wonders you could hear…