As an aspiring writer in my twenties, I dressed in tweeds and corduroy, smoked a pipe, drank to excess and was enthralled by the works, or, more accurately, by the unrestrained behaviour of Dylan Thomas, which I sought to imitate. I believed that such an outward appearance of Bohemianism would ensure my status as ‘a poet’ or, more importantly, endear me to members of the opposite sex.
All that was a long time ago and my naive enthusiasm for Dylan Thomas is all but forgotten. Other literary heroes have replaced ‘the celestial blabbermouth’ in my pantheon of ‘Great Writers’. The foul pipe and tweeds have been consigned to history and I now drink alcohol sparingly. Writing, however, has endured to this day and I like to think that, occasionally, my verse achieves the grace of poetry.
TIDES OF TIME
When I was never sober, young and single,
at closing time, Auld Pat would keep repeating
Time’s up, please gentlemen ...
time’s up now please!
his voice like tide retreating
over shingle,
but in my youthful, drunk elation,
half-legless, careless as a cat,
I gave no thought to time.
Time’s up now, gents!
Grown old and sober, I concur with that
yet still cling on in desperation.
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