Sunday, March 27, 2016

In an old bar

All afternoon a fly dragged its buzz,
a clock its tick,
and the sun, dumped on the counter,
had the dust swimming silvery.

A white-shirted barman,
herring-boned temples,
glinting ginger down his arms,
was deep-buried in the Independent.
I sat behind my pint, followed
the fitful buzzing below the ceiling
while the city traffic guffawed
outside and beyond.

I, the centre of contentment,
seeing beauty in this cosmos of small things,
was God: all seeing, all knowing;
all that and more: nothing.

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