Passing

In a Café

She clasps the cup with both her hands,
Over the rim her glance compels
(A man forgets his hat, returns,
The waitress leans against the shelves).

And Botticelli, painting in the corner,
Glances absorbed across a half-turned shoulder
Thinking of lilies springing where she walks
As now she rises, moves across the room,
(The yawning waitress gathers up the stalks,
The ash, the butt-ends and the dregs of tea).
Pausing between the gesture and the motion,
Lifting her hand to brush away her hair,
He limns her in an instant, always there
Between the doorway and the emphatic till
With waves and angels, balanced on a shell.

By Rosemary Dobson

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