An Englishman Abroad

With a slight wave of the hand
she gestures, ‘May I sit here?’

I half smile and nod –
glance up from my book,
remove my jacket
from the chair.

Her face tells me, ‘Thank you.’
Her greying hair, tied back,
trying to escape a rubber-band;
wayward strands – fugitives
in the breeze.

A waiter brings my coffee; black –
she orders hers.

A rosary –
red and orange beads,
clasped in her hand;
wipes her eyes
on the sleeve of her coat.

Why are phrase books all the same?
Why don’t they teach us more
than, ‘Where is the station?’
Or, ‘How old is your goat?’

I neck my cappuccino –
jacket on shoulder;
walk off down the road.

La Piazza, Piacenza,
to become a blurred,
fuzzy image; one in hundreds
of holidays abroad.

There can be no goodbyes,
if hello’s never spoken.

And yet...over-rated things;
words.