I wrote this a couple of years back, based on an old man I passed every day. I don’t see him any more and imagine he might have gone home. He was a lovely old gentleman and we always exchanged greetings on passing. I’m re-blogging in his memory.
The old man sits on the bench outside of the pub a sandwich left by a thoughtful stranger beside him. This is his world, his bench and at this moment in time his very existence. He is always there, whatever the weather and whatever the time of year. He sits, one weary leg crossed over the other looking at the traffic on the busy road as if he might be surveying a beautiful scene and maybe to him it is. The locals think they know him, wave and call out on passing. They leave him the odd sandwich or pack of tobacco and call him mate, although no one really knows him, where he comes from and who he was once. The men that frequent the pub stop and talk to him on occasion, maybe while having a cigarette outside. He welcomes the conversation but does not demand the attention…
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