Lindsay G H Hall


Ancient schoolmaster. Prone to write Latin poems. Indigestion with most modern crap, give me Virgil, Milton, Keats, Tennyson.


Unkempt, unshaven, in a corner seat

That forever and a day has been

His kingdom, nursing with wizened hands his little gin,
He contemplates in silence his own feet.

Draping the collar of a grubby overcoat,

Shaggy white locks declare not merely years,

But spoilt and wasted wisdom, blast curse

Of spent life, woven with the scabbed soot

Of all our human spate. He’ll not say it, but tears

Are there behind, beneath, beyond the cowl

Of English reserve. His ancient, furrowed brow

Shadows, but cannot hide, the princely scowl

That thinks on comrades – found, made and lost -
In World War I – as were it yesterday – so long ago.