Old Man Dylan

The clock ticks quietly and regularly. Old man Dylan taps the blackened, gnarled, worn bowl of his pipe against the solid wood of the chair. He contemplates the view from his high window. The sky, cloudless and unscratched blue. The land, tree lined and fortified green, peopled by characters from his memories. Ma Biscuits, a crook dressed in an apron who lived at the door beyond the boozer. Her two boys, Emlyn and Trevor, who wasted their space in this universe until they left it whilst robbing the big town post office. The pub itself, basic and mostly broken. Serving rank, piss warm beer to old man Dylan and his ilk for all of their lives. He can no longer remember all the names of his ilk or even their faces, but he recognises the face walking up the hill toward him now. Bach Evans, the hardest drinking, hardest working, misery in all of the valleys. Dead some ten or more years now come calling. Old man Dylan glances at the clock, slowly filling the bowl of his pipe, striking his last match against the arm of the chair. One long draw on his pipe, the cloud of smoke and then he was gone. Old man Dylan and Bach Evans walking down the hill past the pub and along the valley. And the clock ticks on.