He sat in the corner
Of his local hostelry,
Amid an array of sepia photographs
Hanging in precision on the walls.
Old soldiers and tanks,
Army memorabilia and memories.
A brusque old man
With faded cap,
Who sat in the thick of grey curling fog which
Spurted from his Donegal pipe
As he sucked on it in a terse manner.
He would be waiting on the pavement outside,
Striding up and down impatiently and
Always first in line as the tall doors swung open,
Ordering his usual pint
And retiring to the quietness of the snug.
Seldom did he speak
But his eagle eye missed nothing.
He knew every secret in the village
But never spoke of it.
And sadly, that corner is where he chose to expire.
Amid the fog
And the memories
That had been his life.
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