To sit in a quiet pub,
In the middle of the day,
Camouflaged within the working week,
Snug, in my smugness.
Pen and pint in hand,
Both emptying in bursts as the afternoon wanes.
The sun comes and goes,
Peeking through the unwashed window,
Allowing me a moment,
To close my eyes,
And imagine,
Some tropical destination,
Where pints and words flow free.
Away from the Silk Cut pub wall clock,
Burping out relentless ticks and tocks,
Its hand creeping ever closer to five.
My feet edging ever closer to the door.
A not so great escape,
Before offices blocks spill their guts to the streets.
My sanctuary intact.
Pint empty,
Book full.
Face flushed but not burned.
Because even in my daydreams,
I use factor 50.
About the Creator
Gavin J Innes
Scottish Writer Living in that London.
I pen plays, poems, prose and alliterations.
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More stories from Gavin J Innes and writers in Poets and other communities.
waLL
It’s sad, isn’t it? How he just stares at the wall, time washing over him like a waterfall. Are there faces in the stone? Does the flatness sooth his itchy brain? Or is it because it is simply there? Solid. Constant. Asking for nothing but giving him everything, it seems. Perhaps its off-white, eggshell façade is the perfect resting place for weary eyes that would rather stare than cry? Who knows what it is he sees? Maybe you? Maybe me? Maybe nothing at all; and sometimes nothing can be everything.
By Gavin J Innes3 years ago in Poets
Perfect Little Pirate
The rough, sodden rope bit into her fingers as she swung over the roiling water far below. Reaching out with the toe of her boot, she managed to catch hold of the rain-soaked railing of the ship- and promptly slipped. Throwing herself forward, she landed hard on the deck, slamming her elbows against the wood planks. The sharp yelp of pain quickly bubbled into a laugh, and she rolled onto her back, laughing up at the gray sky as a torrent of rain washed away the soot covering her skin.
By M. A. Mehan 4 days ago in Fiction
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