by Juliet Antill
The best caffè was the first,
taken at a roadside bar.
We sat inside, but wished we’d sat
with the smell of diesel
and the growl of passing trucks.
A hilltop village smouldered beyond the forecourt.
The first caffè was like pulling on a cigarette –
bitter and terse.
Language was made of bees.
A globe of light was in my cup.