The last of the summer’s wine.

The last of the summer’s wine.

As evening turns into night

The sound of laughter carries with it

The smell of beer

From the pub on the corner

He can picture the loneliness

Of closing time

Stragglers resisting until the last call

Afraid of venturing out

Retiring to their furnished rooms

The smell of onions and unwashed sheets

He holds his foot steady

Balanced against the toilet bowl

Cutting his toenails

Watching them float, before the flush

Knowing one day he would let them grow

Too long

But not this night

Ritual holds his world together.

In the morning he wakes

To the smell of coffee

Which motivates his senses

Pushes him on, bacon is an assault

Demanding to be eaten

People wait at coffee stands

Others queue for seats

Sometimes he is less determined

To ignore the compunction

So easily felt, to just keep walking

Never to look back

Over the hill, past the old mill

Converted into open plan living

With prestige views across the moor,

He struggles to understand

How

But this once, Victorian powerhouse

Was now a tourist destination,

In the winter it is raining

In summer it is about to.

He walks out over the bridge,

Where the river runs a turgid brown

Last year it claimed the life

Of a college graduate

Who thought he could jump in

From the central arch, too high to drown

Too late to change his mind

On the way down

Sometimes in life

There are no second chances

Even in sleepy old towns

Where the future will often

Pass right through without stopping

And old-timers carry on

Dying wool in the old ways

Even when progress hits them in the face

Futility always seemed to make him smile

He guessed it was what kept him moving

But he knew one day the carriage clock

On the sideboard would stop

And he might not have the heart left in him

To start it up again.