I was casually ambling through the streets of the city when I noticed a side street that I had never seen before. I turned into it, glad of somewhere new to explore, and I started to walk along the cobbles. The street had no name board, and was about 100 metres long with high stone walls along the sides screening the gardens beyond. Reaching the end of the street I saw it open out onto a pretty grass square mostly lined with houses. Diagonally across the square another side street led off to somewhere I had yet to go. I noticed the small market at the other end of the square with half a dozen stalls, there was also a convenience shop, an old greasy spoon cafe and a bakery at the top end.
I started off towards the other street across the square cutting through the small market area. As I got to the stalls a trader started to shout out his wares to attract attention. All of a sudden people just arrived and I was soon lost in a crowd of loud shoppers and shouting vendors. And then. Then a familiar feeling gripped me. My stomach churned, my head exploded and I felt feint, my legs were weak and collapsing. My head started to throb and my mind was under attack from the noise. Suddenly I felt a hand on mine and a young woman said
“Beg your pardon Sir, are you alright? You don't look very well, here come and sit”.
I let her half lead, half drag me out of the crowd and away from the noise. To be honest I had no choice, I was helpless to resist. I was vaguely aware that she took me into the Old Cafe and sat me down by the window. She let go of my hand and left. As my head spun and my heart pounded she returned with a mug of tea and left again to fry chips. I was utterly in and utterly out as my mind churned. All I could think to do at the time was to grab my pad and pen from my bag and write. And I did write. I wrote this poem …
The Fire Inside
… and the look of fear,
co-existing with pain,
on a contorted face,
that already knows
it is in mortal difficulty.
As ragged fingers clutch.
Clutch.
At a fire they cannot reach.
Ripping agonies react to
an enforced cardiac scare,
as blackness closes in
gravity heaves its hardest,
but the fall is fake.
A red herring in the event.
And the weight of the world
presses down, searching,
retracts waiting,
presses down, searching,
retracts waiting.
A breath is given freedom,
an exhalation to the light
that slowly rolls back
the pitch hue of the void.
Returning lost images,
feelings and new belief.
And the fire inside quietens.
And the fire inside quietens.
Quietens to the intense glow
of a burnt aching heart...
The panic attack had abated a little and I was slowly gaining control of myself again. I looked up and out of the window. A mother and two children were staring at me. The panic rose again as the shame and guilt of causing a public spectacle gushed into my mind. I grabbed my things and fled the Old Cafe, making my way back to the cobbled street and the main road as fast as I could.
It was two hours later, back at my flat, having calmed and rid myself of the panic attack, that I was making a mug of tea. A thought hit me and I felt embarrassed that I hadn't even thanked the waitress let alone paid for the tea. So I resolved to return and make amends.
Two days later I found myself walking into and along the cobbles of the little side street. My heart was beating fast as I recalled my previous visit days earlier. Upon reaching the square I noticed a different feel, I accounted for this as I noted that there were no market stalls set out. I turned to walk towards the Old Cafe except … it wasn't there. The bakery and convenience shop were still there but in between nothing. Just a piece of waste ground with a traffic cone and a hungry crow. Not believing what my eyes were not seeing my feet started to walk towards where the Old Cafe ought to be. Halfway along the side of the square a resident came out of his house to put a bag of ******* in his wheelie bin. So I stopped and asked
“Where is the Old Cafe?”
“The Old Cafe?” he asked “Why, that burned down 20 years ago. Poor waitress lost her life in the fire”.
This was starting to get a little strange as I had been in that cafe two days ago, I had written a poem in there. Seeing the obvious confusion on my face he continued
“Story goes that she was carrying a pan of hot oil, was spooked by the ghost, dropped the oil and the place went up like matchwood. Poor woman didn't stand a chance”.
So many questions passed through my head and I wondered if he might be taking the rise. But none of those questions emerged, just one forced its way passed my lips
“Ghost?” I asked
“Yes” he said affably “the Old Cafe was said to be haunted by a ghost. The ghost ... of a Poet”.
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 8:08 AM UTC
I was casually ambling through the streets of the city when I noticed a side street that I had never seen before. I turned into it, glad of somewhere new to explore, and I started to walk along the cobbles. The street had no name board, and was about 100 metres long with high stone walls along the sides screening the gardens beyond. Reaching the end of the street I saw it open out onto a pretty grass square mostly lined with houses. Diagonally across the square another side street led off to somewhere I had yet to go. I noticed the small market at the other end of the square with half a dozen stalls, there was also a convenience shop, an old greasy spoon cafe and a bakery at the top end.
I started off towards the other street across the square cutting through the small market area. As I got to the stalls a trader started to shout out his wares to attract attention. All of a sudden people just arrived and I was soon lost in a crowd of loud shoppers and shouting vendors. And then. Then a familiar feeling gripped me. My stomach churned, my head exploded and I felt feint, my legs were weak and collapsing. My head started to throb and my mind was under attack from the noise. Suddenly I felt a hand on mine and a young woman said
“Beg your pardon Sir, are you alright? You don't look very well, here come and sit”.
I let her half lead, half drag me out of the crowd and away from the noise. To be honest I had no choice, I was helpless to resist. I was vaguely aware that she took me into the Old Cafe and sat me down by the window. She let go of my hand and left. As my head spun and my heart pounded she returned with a mug of tea and left again to fry chips. I was utterly in and utterly out as my mind churned. All I could think to do at the time was to grab my pad and pen from my bag and write. And I did write. I wrote this poem …
The Fire Inside
… and the look of fear,
co-existing with pain,
on a contorted face,
that already knows
it is in mortal difficulty.
As ragged fingers clutch.
Clutch.
At a fire they cannot reach.
Ripping agonies react to
an enforced cardiac scare,
as blackness closes in
gravity heaves its hardest,
but the fall is fake.
A red herring in the event.
And the weight of the world
presses down, searching,
retracts waiting,
presses down, searching,
retracts waiting.
A breath is given freedom,
an exhalation to the light
that slowly rolls back
the pitch hue of the void.
Returning lost images,
feelings and new belief.
And the fire inside quietens.
And the fire inside quietens.
Quietens to the intense glow
of a burnt aching heart...
The panic attack had abated a little and I was slowly gaining control of myself again. I looked up and out of the window. A mother and two children were staring at me. The panic rose again as the shame and guilt of causing a public spectacle gushed into my mind. I grabbed my things and fled the Old Cafe, making my way back to the cobbled street and the main road as fast as I could.
It was two hours later, back at my flat, having calmed and rid myself of the panic attack, that I was making a mug of tea. A thought hit me and I felt embarrassed that I hadn't even thanked the waitress let alone paid for the tea. So I resolved to return and make amends.
Two days later I found myself walking into and along the cobbles of the little side street. My heart was beating fast as I recalled my previous visit days earlier. Upon reaching the square I noticed a different feel, I accounted for this as I noted that there were no market stalls set out. I turned to walk towards the Old Cafe except … it wasn't there. The bakery and convenience shop were still there but in between nothing. Just a piece of waste ground with a traffic cone and a hungry crow. Not believing what my eyes were not seeing my feet started to walk towards where the Old Cafe ought to be. Halfway along the side of the square a resident came out of his house to put a bag of ******* in his wheelie bin. So I stopped and asked
“Where is the Old Cafe?”
“The Old Cafe?” he asked “Why, that burned down 20 years ago. Poor waitress lost her life in the fire”.
This was starting to get a little strange as I had been in that cafe two days ago, I had written a poem in there. Seeing the obvious confusion on my face he continued
“Story goes that she was carrying a pan of hot oil, was spooked by the ghost, dropped the oil and the place went up like matchwood. Poor woman didn't stand a chance”.
So many questions passed through my head and I wondered if he might be taking the rise. But none of those questions emerged, just one forced its way passed my lips
“Ghost?” I asked
“Yes” he said affably “the Old Cafe was said to be haunted by a ghost. The ghost ... of a Poet”.
A little mystery prose to tantalise the mind! The Fire Inside poem was actually written whilst I was having a panic attack but those circumstances were rather mundane so I invented a more interesting story around the event. The last line also gave me the title for a poem published a few poems ago on my stream.
