He hears
the squeak of gaiter on wet
gaiter;
black Bob, half-sitting, scratches
at a flea,
his front paws slipping, scouring
broken flags,
dredging through a scatter of
stale sawdust.
An ash log cracks.
a sudden hiss of gas is drowned in
flame.
The opening door delivers a slab
of cold,
stiffening his skin.
Old Charlie drags his breath,
in and out,
with the harsh, high music of the
skeining geese,
while Billy’s reedy treble
trembles on the pipe smoke,
tumbles after some forgotten tale;
no matter.
Silence.
Just the few flat statements of
each glass set down,
the whispers of the indrawn ale,
an unembarrassed belch - ‘Pardon’
- and
hands hitch satisfied across the
curve of moleskin.
They seem to sleep, these earthy
men,
needing little, saying less.
Comforted by seasons and by
ring-stained wood,
by time allowed to grow.
Not many left now, free houses.
Blind Jem stirs in the chimney
settle,
knocks out his pipe;
then ‘Do them furriners take over,
I’m orf...’
(November,
1988)
