VIGNETTES FROM A YORKSHIRE PUB

From memory, the only poetic licence is that. although true, they took place in several public houses over the years.

 

 

 

VIGNETTES FROM A YORKSHIRE PUB

I

There the old fellah silently sat,

tattoos of blue black coal dust,

a face worker, white fingers but

he never spills a drop.

I ask to join him, he says

Yes if you buy me a pint and don’t speak

 

II

The old lass leans over complaining

it’s too hot, fanning herself with

a beer mat. I agree and admire her

summer outfit of wool coat and hat.

She beams saying she always likes

to look posh when she comes to town.

 

III

Ernest, 4ft 6in and 100 years old,

the famous street pirate.

Begging change for a cup of tea.

Now emptying pockets full of coins

onto the bar. He gets £30 in return

and walks out without a word.

He doesn’t like the ale here.

 

IV

I watch the man at the bar,

ducking, diving, weaving never still.

‘That’s Baz the boxer’ says a voice,

‘never stops does he’ I marvel,

‘he can’t’ came the reply, ‘he’s shit,

never won a fight, brain’s like custard.’

6 thoughts on “VIGNETTES FROM A YORKSHIRE PUB

    1. Thank you very much Roland, I’m starting to love the form as much as the sonnet and as you will no doubt agree, our native land is the perfect place to people watch. I recall these memories with affection for the people who I so momentarily crossed paths with.

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