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Until now, I didnít know how dark it was inside.
It just seemed a cosy place to have a pint
(my usual). The seats are worn and wonky.
Table-legs have torn-up beer mats wedged
to keep them stable. On the walls
are curiosities, nets, an old clock
whose hands are slow but know each dip
and wrinkle round its face. All the regulars
are talking shop. They are the backbone.
You peering in now, nose to the glass,
hands shielding the sunís glare,
your smile as wide as the bay behind,
your eyes are a lighthouse beam scanning
the shadows for me; rummaging
amongst the memorabilia for my shape.
And though Iím smiling and waving
Iíve ghosted into dust.
You turn from the window, out of the frame
leaving me low-ceilinged and cluttered
staring at that square of light where you had been.