Spirits soak into every pore,
slowly drip from the beer tap.
Stir up memories of older days,
as they drip softly to the floor.
Last orders the bell would ring.
Drink up the barmaid would sing.
Laughter still reverberates
when the place is empty,
cries and tears
of which there have been plenty.
They all soak in.
Weathered into the wooden bar top,
like it's made of porous skin.
Spirits in every nook and cranny,
everywhere you look
a faded memory.
The highs and the lows.
This place has seen them all.
Every barstool a story,
every drunken stumble, every fall.
Each and every day
open doors welcoming.
Hidden hands making them sway,
beckoning in.
Home from home,
but in here
the phantoms roam.
Hidden from sight the spirits take over
when the place closes at night.
Pint glass pushed by unseen hands
teeters towards the edge then drops.
Smashes where it lands..
The scent of pipe smoke fills the air.
In the old coal fireplace
wispy flames begin to flare.
Darts fly, pool balls clunk together.
The arrows head straight for the bullseye.
The sound of disembodied voices,
echoing a wartime song chorus.
Chatter and laughter, smiles and sighs.
Anger and love, emotions don’t die,
they live on in the brickwork
and they come out at night.
Thanks for reading
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