Dylan Long Since Dead.

This would have been so much simpler

seventy years ago, distant edible Time

gone by, a hopeful spot of lunch

and various glass sizes of whisky

and beer filling my insides,

the White Hart

a mess of staggering proportions,

eye sight blurred and voice slurred,

I would have bowed to the words

of Dylan, the master of such dramatic pause…


and shuffled along my own feeble attempt

in which to capture a moment

in fag cut haze, breathing it in,

sideways glance to a booth where my words

might mean something to the lonely woman

with stardust fire hair, lips hanging

open as the faint whisper of a forgotten tear hangs

in the shadow of her tongue, I would

love to see that image, the red hair

dancing in the slight breeze as the door opens

wide to let in another wandering soul,

a devout follower of the word of Dylan

but rightly ignorant of my own pathetic attempt

to emulate the Welsh Bard as he knocks back

whisky after damned whisky, cutting short elegance,

cutting short a life of drama;

Dylan now long since dead,

my own thoughts seventy years out of step

and my finger goes up

slowly to catch the eye of the barmaid,

green baize jacket denoting snooker ball fetish,

and the red haired woman comes across to join me,

pulls out a cigarette and offers

me one, the whisper of such times,

now lost to me.


Ian D. Hall 2017