The Face

The Face On my walk along the old lane I came across a tree that has on its trunk the outline of a sad pastry chef’s face, of one who has just burnt his cakes; and has to open his shop, now he had to rush out, buy up pastries in other places; theirs, of course, will not be as good as his own, but he got to have something to sell. He’ll grind up his burnt cakes put the crumble in tiny paper bags and sell them to children on their way to school, or old folks who are going to the park to feed the ducks; ten cent a bag. His wife’s fault, she came to the bakery - they haven’t been married long- they kissed, canoodled; ok, we get the picture. He has made it clear that she mustn’t upset him during baking hours, he isn’t mad at her, not since she told him she had a bun in the oven herself. And the tree, it’s an olive tree- silvery in winter light- is silent but there is a stir of a smile in the air.