Wednesday 4 December 2013

A public house in south-east London

It is like of an old Wild West saloon –
memories of laughter and fights
are pushed into its shadows.
Its patrons lived mainly at night.
They are gone, but their tales and songs
seem congealed in the deep brown varnish.
The boom times ended; the world moved on
leaving only the lonely and damaged
tarnished cups, a broken-down piano.
Hooded like death in a grey cowl
the scrawny man who no-one talks to
sits alone in the dark on his bar stool
Penge Pete. No-one can beat him on the drop
between Cash Converters and the pound shop.

1 comment:

willh said...
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