by Joanne Allen
In the old Quaker House
where the time
on the round face of
the clock
above the door
is always
almost a quarter past two
She stole him her
most winsome smile
he gave the slightest of nods
the jazz duet
played on
that Sunday afternoon
When she thought she caught him
watching her
she flushed
her pert curls bobbed
She'd seen him before
dark jacket
walking in the town
But then, just as the trombone struck up
did she see
a twinkle in his eye
meant for her?
He adjusted his long legs
under the pew
crisscrossed his brogues
and faced her
Through the lead chequered windows
the moon was blue
in the twilight
of the old Quaker House
where the time was
always
just about
a quarter past two.
© Copyright Joanne Allen - THACS Writers Online 2020