When my local pub lost a beloved regular, Dougie, last year, I wrote him a poem.

It was published in a Stockport beer magazine, The Opening Times, and kindly got printed by Bob and Mary the landlords and hung above Dougie’s old seat.

I wasn’t able to attend Dougie’s funeral, but in the pub a week later another regular told me he shared the poem with Dougie’s family who said they wished they had the chance to read it during the ceremony.

This is not me bragging about the quality of the poem, but instead highlighting the power that personalised words can have during a difficult time.

***

The Booth on the Left

For Dougie

The booth on the left as you walk in
has a Scottish accent
wrapped around a 3.9% ale.
It has a permanent shirt on its torso
and clean shoes on its feet.

The booth on the left as you walk in
remembers the names of 1950s
football players you’ve never heard of.

The booth on the left as you walk in
has no time for the English cricket team,
a whispered love of romantic poetry,
a non-whispered dislike of modern poetry.

The booth on the left as you walk in
has no time for the English football team.

The booth on the left as you walk in
orders a thick pork pie to takeaway every day,
crisply folds a newspaper in half,
never asks for help on crossword clues
and forgets to take its thick pork pie away every day.

The booth on the left as you walk in
steers its zimmer frame
around tables,
passed stools,
through walkways
with sniper-like precision.

The booth on the left as you walk in
has pub doors, toilet doors, taxi doors
opened for it without asking.

The booth on the left as you walk in
is empty now.

The booth on the left as you walk in
will live forever
with a Scottish accent
wrapped around a 3.9% ale.

***

If you’d like to honour someone you have lost, get in touch for a poem today.

Hear me reading this poem over on Instagram.