Jack Blaina Poem by Dave Lewis

‘I'll take him for ya, ' croaked Jack. ‘It'll cost ya half a crown though.'
Then the cobbled street would be painted with an old man,
limping down the hill, his shin had been shot off during the Great War.
A trusting mutt, ragged at the end of a short piece of rope,
taken for his last walk by my uncle Jack, to the gasworks, just past the fair,
where a brass band played loud outside the dentist's curtained tent
and where young boys ran their hands through tin cans of blood and enamel.
The dog would exchange owners again, briefly, twice that morning,
before wagging its tail and looking up through sad, forgiving eyes.
The rope would be returned and Jack would skip to the pub
to wet his whistle, lather his lips with chestnut liquid
and tell stories of grown men crying for their mothers
as the sound of sawing bone faded in the rain
and the bells of the French church signalled he was finally going home.