Christopher Hopkins writes

Proposal at the Bryn

The thought had formed like flint in his mind.
Over weeks it had grown in size.
Although eyes red traced with the dusts
of his life’s gone byes,
his smile still shone out,
still life in the toothless dog.
Dressed and tidy,
as tight as the folded bud,
with his chest out like sails,
he made his entrance known.
Him, with his showy pride,
making its way before him,
parting the bar crowd.
Moses would have smiled.
After the first rum,
the point of order came.
From behind the bar she said ‘yes’.
They said their vows in May that year,
seven years after the passing of his first love.
He would die with his second
by his side,
at his hospital bed,
three years on.
He was happy.