Members of creative writing club Writers' Bloc have been responding to a painting by Edward Hopper, Sunlight in a Cafeteria.
Here are pieces by four members of the club:
Sunlight in a cafeteria poem
He sits in wait till she calls him near
His eyes show age, a patient shadow
The sun comes through to burn the fear
Her face is stubborn with not a tear
Though inside her heart does flow
He sits in wait till she calls him near
The room was still, her mind was clear
She sat with pride let it show
The sun comes through to burn the fear
He absorbed her lasts, last day, last year
And calmly off away they’d flow
He sits in wait till she calls him near
He begins to stand and she sees him appear
Just watching and hiding her great woe
The sun comes through to burn the fear
She saw his cloak, his scythe, his gear
He took her hand and held her dear
He sits in wait till she calls him near
The sun comes through to burn the fear.
Daisy Pickering
The Sunlit Cafe
The gentle wind ruffled their hair as they sat opposite solid oak tables while the golden light spilled in from the open window. Music floated across to them from a street opposite them, calming the nerves that jangled in their souls. An appreciated mug of coffee sat in front of the individuals releasing the aroma across the polished cafeteria.
The muted honks of impatient cars sang in the distance like a pack of harmonised geese as doves danced with the clouds in a lazy waltz. The oak tables gleamed with pleasure as if they were welcoming the strangers to stay longer. A starched frown was drawn upon the man’s tanned face as he sat looking morosely out the open windows.
He stared deeply at the houses as if they held the secrets of the universe inside it while the woman next to his table fiddled nervously with her slim fingers. Her periwinkle-blue dress shimmered like the sea while her golden hair shone like the morning star. The dirt encrusted houses were a dark comparison to the peaceful café.
Grace Yeo
The Mysterious Man
Neither of them had said anything yet. The lady was staring at the table. The man seemed to be staring into space. They were sitting at different tables. The man wore a black suit; the lady wore a blue dress.
Finally, the man spoke.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?”
She studied him carefully. She recognized him from somewhere.
The café was where she went to think. The sun would always beam down on her and it was so quiet and peaceful. She had been very surprised when the man had come out and sat on the table next to hers.
After a while, she replied.
“Yes, it is.”
After a few more minutes, the man stood up.
“Goodbye then.”
He tucked his chair in and left.
Kyriel Fynn
Sunlight in a Cafeteria
In this bright place
A man and wife
Sitting apart
Away from strife
She holds a mug
And gazes down
While her husband
Begins to frown
‘My dear,’ he says,
‘What have I done?
From these troubles
You cannot run!’
She stirs the spoon
He scrapes the plate
“You tell me then
Let’s get this straight!
You tried to rob
You tried to steal!
The moon and sun
For your own zeal.
You’re a mean man
And nothing more
My love for you
Is but a chore.
You stole my heart
The sun and moon
To your love I
Am now immune!’
‘You selfish brat
Can you not see?
I didn’t steal them
All for me!
They were for you
Heart, moon and sun
Because you are
My only one!
You are my moon
My sun and heart
And I can’t bear to be apart!’
Then there was quiet
All round the room
For yes he’d stole
The sun and moon
Her hair was gold
Alike the sun
Curled her and there
And softly spun.
Her eyes were grey
Alike the moon
And shone so bright
In this here June.
Her heart beat slow
Her eyes tested up
Her hair went flat
She gripped her cup.
‘I stole the sun
And moon for you
I love you so
To you I’m true!’
Then with a scrape
The tables met
Dragged across floor
Polished and wet.
And as they met
The sun had sunk
Escaping from
The husbands trunk.
The moon arose
He’d escaped too!
And in the sky
Came a grey hue.
Their hearts fluttered
In synch once more
Their love was
No longer a chore!
For he loved her
And she loves him
And in the moon
Light they now swim.
Colette Maxwell-Preston