‘Tabs,’ the hard currency

A realized necessity for

The unshaven one

Park bench for a pit

A charcoal sky ensuite

An out of date Times

Worn beneath Sally Army’s


Only the one sock

One sock?


In his back pocket

A tatty snap, a pretty girl

He had loved and lost


Once in bygone days

He took no heed of

His father’s counsel

‘We are all but

One pay packet

Away from ruin’

Hard to engage with

Fatherly words when

Wine, women and

Song were the

Order of the night


It was vacant eyes

Eyes that spelled out

Bemusement that met

The roaming soothsayer


That we all die

The easy prediction

That some ride

Death’s highway

Upon a golden chariot

Others in a frozen trance

Made grim prophecy

Even easier in his case


As she, the forecaster

Advised this down at heel

The vagrant wind

Deprived of titan corridors

And drafty envelopes

Pitters out

Becomes a nothing

When the janitor Sun

Condescends to return north

And tidy up the

Ravages of winter-tide


Come autumn

His remains, as dust

Scattered here and there

His essence recycled

In the impossible ether

Was the best comfort

She could afford him

That he nodded

Meant he understood

The absurdity of his folly

The extent of his







    1. Not a problem yet be aware I am all but PC illiterate! I did the click thing on your submissions yet it wouldn’t open – no doubt a thing to do with my wayward ‘click’ technique!

    1. How very kind and thoughtful. Please do not think me ungrateful but the key tag to my blogging is that I don’t want (and most likely don’t deserve) to be taken seriously. It is for this reason only that I don’t accept awards for they feel a bit ‘serious’ to me. Notwithstanding you have my eternal gratitude young Allison. Yours, The Old Fool

  1. WOW! Your quill (keyboard?), the brush in this magnificent painting you’ve created with words. This one was so vivid and captivating! Though I must wonder if he died from frostbite on his sockless foot?

    1. Do you know I have a knackered right shoulder trying to prevent a box of books falling out of the attic (by Shirley’s fair end) and haven’t slept a wink…once again I have explained to her that women no nothing about real pain!

      1. That stinks! And I can see your point… What’s a cervix opened wide enough to spit out a human head and shoulders compared to a bump on the noggin? (Seriously, I know that had to have hurt! OUCH! Feel better soon! I mean SOON!!!!)

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