The Quiet Man

In the corner of a country pub sits the quiet man
It’s a scene played out in pubs all across the land
Sitting in the same spot as he has done for many a day
No one dares to take his spot at least not upon this day

Silently he watches as life unfolds upon his town
Out the window he gazes with a smile never a frown
An empty glass and coins pushed forward no words does he say
A signal to the dark haired girl another round this way

It isn’t rudeness or arrogance that halts his spoken word
It’s just his way of being, seen but seldom heard
Drinkers come and drinkers go they see his familiar sight
Acknowledged by some ignored by most as they move throughout the night

He sits and drinks he puts on no show
A local through and through to those in the know
The look is one of pride on his weather worn face
As he looks at his town he knows this place

If the chance comes your way to sit in his seat
Stop for a while and view his main street
See his town from his very eyes
The town of his birth heaven under the skies


Author Notes

The second of my poems about men and their homes.

7 Comments for “The Quiet Man”

Emma Fawson

says:

This is a lovely write about a once-recognised figure that is dying with the loss of pubs. The picture is well painted, here, but I have to say, of such types I have known, sitting on their pub stool in ‘their’ spot would result in trouble, lol.

Craig Lincoln

says:

Thank you Emma the reference to his seat is real the locals know the stool and the time he arrives the stool is always available and if an outsider is there a subtle hint such as that is daves favourite stool and he will be here soon usually results in the visitor moving to the next stool out of respect not for fear of causing a fuss

Raymond Tobaygo

says:

Good morning, Craig
Another outstanding poem. The rhyme and flow were spot on. One gets a definite feel for him: A quiet, reserved individual who savors life in his own way. Well done!

Take care and stay safe,

Ray

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