He moved with a slow deliberation,

Chuckling outwardly at his awkward

Infirmity

Veined claw resolute in its defiant grip

Of arm or frame.

A passion for Woodbine was grudgingly consoled

By Consulate in his strategic mind.

He would play the game.

A grand man for telling the story,

Where horses had played a part in

Many a ludicrous tale.

Yet prone to switch, in a flick, from

Riotous past to petty momentum.

A delicate balance, not infrequently tipped

By those in his company

A stubborn bravery 1 saw in him,

Tinted inevitably by the cross of

Self,

Each of us has to bear.

But time now was a shadow to be

Fought,

Not discounted because of

Timelessness,

And concession stuck in his craw.

No deal making was sought from

The white coat brigade.

Neither did he haggle with himself

                                  Not for him

The soft ambience of compromise

.This may be the night he drinks

Only one cup of the tea provided.