There it is again that distant gaze powerful, it pierces faraway sandstorms looking for the memory of where that long lost piece of you may be buried and the Afghan sun can’t even burn your eyes because you’ve stared so long, so often.
That subtle curl of lip and your eyes wander softly back in to the room amongst the lads, lagers and a few over-under dressed lasses.
There’s no sand here and you know the rain is always close-by – like us – we just hope we can help to find you some hard-earned peace.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem. It’s dedicated to my friends who’ve spent time fighting for the country on faraway shores.
Quid in the jukebox The Jam, Bowie, Queen, Elvis – Presley – not Costello
grass-green baize torn and twisted in places twenty pence a shot free on Saturday afternoon when it’s a fiver-a-man tournament winner takes all no chalk for the cues though
footy on the telly screens piracy definitely we don’t complain it’s the best pint in town and they do pork scratchings
they’ve got a bloke who does runs to the bookies backs himself to return the betslip in under 10 minutes he gets a drink either way
the old gagdies tell tales of when they worked the shipyards or some down the pits they shake your hands every time theirs brittle – scarred with hard graft and union strikes
sometimes it gets rowdy when the domino crowds in accusations of cheating to win a 2 quid pot it soon settles down like the best pint in town.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem, inspired by weekends and evenings spent in the social club in my hometown, which are an important part of the North, unfortunately declining in recent years. If you get the chance, pay one a visit, and sign up with them depending on their membership requirements.