I’ve taken a table near the fire.
A view on the lane to my left
and the front door straight on.
This table has a wobble, an ancient
weakness much like this pub, same
as its customers. I order coffee, nod
greetings to a woman sat on a sofa.
She shades her face from the fire’s
heat but seems content to stay seated.
My coffee arrives, I add milk, and
surrender my pen and linened paper
to my abstracted attention.
I write. I must.
Mother loves my letters home.
Recollections of January 1991,
The Prince Albert Pub, Bletchingley, Surrey
Drawing from WikiCommons