It was a scruffier pub in his day;
Set in the middle of the Hangers,
Winded around by vines,
Propping up the frontage.
Inside a smoking room,
And a variety of ales in barrels.
The toilets remained unchanged
On the opposite side of the lane,
A tarmac garden of sorts;
The endearing outdoor bogs,
With a trough to piss in,
Enclosed the dozen or so benches,
In crumbling brick structures.
Greengage, apple, mulberry, and fir trees
Were spotted with delphiniums, poppies,
Everlasting-sweet peas, roses and dahlias.
While in a shady corner campanula,
Phlox, and allium grew.
The solitude of this spot
Meant he never moved far.
One would see whilst walking,
Him always sat here drinking,
The last time he was pottering around,
All stooped over with a head of white hair.
Not long after this visit he passed away;
His wife died too a few months later,
She would walk the dog this way,
To fetch him back home.