hours.”
I lost all control of my legs and collapsed to the floor among the rivulets of spilt beer. I clasped hold of his bony knees and closed my eyes. It is said that when a man loses his life, he sees the whole of his past rush before him. I wondered if this also happened when a man lost his ego. I sincerely hoped that it did not. I had no desire to relive all my mistakes, all my dashed dreams. The shock alone would probably finish me off.
It was Emyr who saved me. With haughty contempt, he growled at the stranger: “What is all this nonsense? Do you mistake this man for the local poet? Any fool can see that this is not he. I am insulted by your insinuation that I would let a poet drink in my establishment! What sort of place do you think this is? This is not Swansea! Do you believe that we have no pride? Of course this man is not the local poet. You’ll find the local poet where any genuine rhymester would choose to spend his time. Down by the river, under the old stone bridge. His name is Toby.”
The stranger curled his mouth in a sneer and angled his head to one side. Suddenly, he pulled away and departed with a nod at Emyr. “If he refuses to pay me, I shall be back to claim my fee,” he said. Emyr proceeded to wash and wipe the stranger’s glass. “Don’t worry about that,” he remarked. “Toby is a very generous soul. You won’t be back.” We watched through the open door as the stranger mounted his ancient motor-cycle and started the engine, roaring away in a cloud of oily smoke. Clambering back to my feet, I made for the bar and ordered another beer. Unusually, Emyr insisted I have one on the house.
We never saw the stranger again. We found his broken motorcycle lying in the centre of the road that leads over the bridge. And we also found the box that had held the blue-glass bottles. Only one of these bottles was intact and I brought it back and set it up behind the bar. What happened to the contents of the other nine can only be guessed at. However, poetry has started to appear on the walls of the bridge, awful poetry, written in what appears to be dried blood. It is said that this blood glows faintly at night. It is also said that Toby has recently taken to wearing a tall hat and picking his teeth clean of travellers with a curiously twisted toothpick.
Even more disturbing than this is the fact that someone has been taking sly drinks from the bottle behind the bar. I suspect that it is Emyr. It seems I will soon have a rival. This is the last thing I need at my stage in life. Had I submitted to the operation, my own ego might now be the one that is being consumed and I wouldn’t have to worry about competition. I sometimes stare out of the grimy windows of my garret, hoping that the stranger, or one like him, will return. It is a forlorn hope. More often, I take myself out to my favourite cemetery and lay myself down in that opened grave which I refuse to see refilled. Ah Gwyneth! She alone understood my essential nature. How I yearn for her puffed face close to mine, her wormy embrace! There is another poem somewhere in this, I am sure. Who knows? If I persist, I may yet attain the status of creative genius.
The West Pole
The West Pole was traditionally discovered by Caradoc Weasel, an explorer who did nothing with it. For many centuries, its existence was merely a rumour. After it was found, the other theoretical Poles were accepted as real. In due course, they were also reached and researched. Of the six Poles, the West remains the most magical. Nobody can say why. The North and South are too functional to inspire the same feelings of awe. They occupy the two ends of the axis upon which the planet spins. The East, Front and Back Poles have no such role, though no geographer dares consider them superfluous. But they do not command the respect which is offered to the West Pole. Possibly this is because the human race never truly appreciates what it has until it is gone.
The longitude
I lost all control of my legs and collapsed to the floor among the rivulets of spilt beer. I clasped hold of his bony knees and closed my eyes. It is said that when a man loses his life, he sees the whole of his past rush before him. I wondered if this also happened when a man lost his ego. I sincerely hoped that it did not. I had no desire to relive all my mistakes, all my dashed dreams. The shock alone would probably finish me off.
It was Emyr who saved me. With haughty contempt, he growled at the stranger: “What is all this nonsense? Do you mistake this man for the local poet? Any fool can see that this is not he. I am insulted by your insinuation that I would let a poet drink in my establishment! What sort of place do you think this is? This is not Swansea! Do you believe that we have no pride? Of course this man is not the local poet. You’ll find the local poet where any genuine rhymester would choose to spend his time. Down by the river, under the old stone bridge. His name is Toby.”
The stranger curled his mouth in a sneer and angled his head to one side. Suddenly, he pulled away and departed with a nod at Emyr. “If he refuses to pay me, I shall be back to claim my fee,” he said. Emyr proceeded to wash and wipe the stranger’s glass. “Don’t worry about that,” he remarked. “Toby is a very generous soul. You won’t be back.” We watched through the open door as the stranger mounted his ancient motor-cycle and started the engine, roaring away in a cloud of oily smoke. Clambering back to my feet, I made for the bar and ordered another beer. Unusually, Emyr insisted I have one on the house.
We never saw the stranger again. We found his broken motorcycle lying in the centre of the road that leads over the bridge. And we also found the box that had held the blue-glass bottles. Only one of these bottles was intact and I brought it back and set it up behind the bar. What happened to the contents of the other nine can only be guessed at. However, poetry has started to appear on the walls of the bridge, awful poetry, written in what appears to be dried blood. It is said that this blood glows faintly at night. It is also said that Toby has recently taken to wearing a tall hat and picking his teeth clean of travellers with a curiously twisted toothpick.
Even more disturbing than this is the fact that someone has been taking sly drinks from the bottle behind the bar. I suspect that it is Emyr. It seems I will soon have a rival. This is the last thing I need at my stage in life. Had I submitted to the operation, my own ego might now be the one that is being consumed and I wouldn’t have to worry about competition. I sometimes stare out of the grimy windows of my garret, hoping that the stranger, or one like him, will return. It is a forlorn hope. More often, I take myself out to my favourite cemetery and lay myself down in that opened grave which I refuse to see refilled. Ah Gwyneth! She alone understood my essential nature. How I yearn for her puffed face close to mine, her wormy embrace! There is another poem somewhere in this, I am sure. Who knows? If I persist, I may yet attain the status of creative genius.
The West Pole
The West Pole was traditionally discovered by Caradoc Weasel, an explorer who did nothing with it. For many centuries, its existence was merely a rumour. After it was found, the other theoretical Poles were accepted as real. In due course, they were also reached and researched. Of the six Poles, the West remains the most magical. Nobody can say why. The North and South are too functional to inspire the same feelings of awe. They occupy the two ends of the axis upon which the planet spins. The East, Front and Back Poles have no such role, though no geographer dares consider them superfluous. But they do not command the respect which is offered to the West Pole. Possibly this is because the human race never truly appreciates what it has until it is gone.
The longitude
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