by Robert Nisbet
Evening kick-off, pub afterwards,
Kev gave them hell.
Home by twelve, fair walk, he’s not too pissed.
(He’s thirty-two now, remember).
First feeds the dog, a short-arsed Sealyham.
(Never slavered a jaw in earnest, this dog.
No pit-bull legend, he).
Kevin heats up some Ovaltine,
remembers to set the alarm.
(His uncle’s by nine tomorrow, fixing that motor).
Time now for Butch’s walk.
Round the block, dog rooting, fervent
only about smells and snorts and urines.
Kevin’s aware of a three-quarter moon,
the light spreading an opulence,
over the jumbled roofs and chimneypots,
grained walls, gardens, the Indian grocer’s
(shuttered now), the chapel, Midway Motors,
still the drenching moonlight,
the place, the peace.