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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.