Sabbatical by Al McClimens

They do traditional in Fagan’s. Sunday

lunch the way it’s meant to be –

meat and two veg, dumplings, gravy,

a pint, a book of verse – and me.

The couple at the next table

are all the way from Doncaster.

He’s raving about the guest ale

but she’s not quite so sure.

I’m uncertain too why you’ve gone.

I wish you’d told me to my face.

It’s such an empty afternoon,

so much spare time, far too much space.