The greatest Coffee I ever had,
Was slurped down quicker than beer at a party,
But the best Barista was nothing of the sort,
He couldn't understand my language, nor even my gestures,
I had pointed a shivering finger at the smudged white chalk that once said 'Mocha',
But perhaps he knew what I needed,

While I waited icy chill nibbled at my ears and darkness deepened before the dawn,
My nose burnt cold, steaming red and dribbling snot like an oil-leak,
My hands wandered for warmth, searching pockets, armpits, sleeves,
Heavy socks and heavier boots shuffled, scuffing square-cut stones,

Finally, with a hurried grunt and a waving hand, I got my mistake,
I fled away from the waiting crowd,
With my coffee into the quiet of the mountain,

The bobbling beanies, fluttering scarfs and clicking cameras faded away,
Leaving solitude, me and my coffee,
Up so high, my ears brushed the roof of the sky,

It was an elixir of warmth and wakefulness,
Served in a grey tin-cup,
Scratched white with age and use,
Full of faith and function,

My tight fingers clenched coldly to the second-hand heat,
Radiating from the metal mug and the lava in a cup,
Steam filled my lungs and the sweet smells rose bitter,
Like a dream of waking up,
Unsettling my huddled thoughts and grabbing the bottom of my spine,
In a heady vice,

Around the world fell away, grey stone to greenery, far below,
And then up again, black, holy and alive,
Ended in a snow scar ridge silhouetted against the waking sun,

I watched,
As the pitch colours, of both the charcoal coffee and the heavy sky,
Blended into lighter tones,
Burnt summer brown and an aubergine orange, glowing in sunlight,

With each sip, both the day and I awoke,
Rising, ascending, resurrecting,
Golden glow breaking the black,
While the black potion spelled a golden warmth,

The taste is melted snow now, gone beneath rays of sunshine,
But the burning heat of the liquid of life and light,
Remains, filling heart, teeth, tendons and hands,
Until long after dawn is done.