posted 16th October 2024
The coach moved slowly, one pace at a time,
The lady sat, unmoved by man’s defining feat.
A stroll through Finchley, Waterstones was lovely,
Just the thing to stop people from being lonely.
The train was fast, wanting to be part of the past.
London Bridge arrived like an old rustic pie,
The travellers just seemed to fly by.
The Inn was there, but nobody dared,
Looking through the darkened windows,
The Devil was looking for the local widows.
The bar was full of paying souls,
But nobody there could hardly bloody care.
The stairs were narrow, like the fire hadn’t happened here,
But life went on, despite the descending fear.
The night was cold but wasn’t very old,
The travellers all together, snoring before their eyes fell closed,
One man leaves, the others can’t believe,
Seeing the disease with a certain ease.
Morning came, wind and rain whaled,
A day to live, a day to see the lights of life,
One day, I’ll always remember St. Christopher’s Inn.
