The mists of time come for us all. Seeping in gently to the pub, taking hold of the old man by his waist, veiling his eyes in memories. A day, long ago, a flower placed in her hand, and a smile, and the smell of vinegar on hot chips. The echoes of emotions come back now from their long absence, and bounce about in his pint glass, and he smiles, no one can say why, and the mists whorl.
Paddy Dobson
26th June 2024