The King’s Mill

Image: Art By Anima

It ends with a steel stick

Propped against

A limestone wall

Its plastic handle

Your tight grip

Up those stone steps

A black sun hat

Stops the rays

From streaking across

Mick’s scarred face

Even now

The careful mind

Worried

About ultraviolet light

That’s already had its way

The black snuck in

We watch as children

Scream and jump

From the bridge

Ducks quack and squeal

As the laughter

From other tables

Sits easy

On this sunny terrace

Drinking non alcoholic beer

Just to be safe

You know

It’s not like you’d think

I’m not worried

What’s the point

You say

It is what it is

The words come slower

They stumble

And then gather again

I hate Irish funerals

You say

All that pretend

Some fuckers just go

To be seen

Walking behind the hearse

Do you see many people

No you say

I like my own company

I’m reading Catastrophe

I love Hastings’ books

You say

It’s my fourth time to read it

It’s my favourite

I’m almost finished

His new book Plunder

Is out in September

I say

My treat

Then I wonder

Is that the last book

The food is finished

Best pizza ever

You say

He takes his stick

Love

This place