He dressed eccentrically at the most –
striped trousers and a top hat bowler.
And a long coat and gaudy shirt.
His eyeglasses would swing on a chain,
and his cane would hang from a limp arm.
The good doctor –
his old-fashioned kindness until the end,
the liquor consuming him
and the water filling his lungs
during the Summer of 1943,
the bridge, a vantage point for his despair
and the snuff box from his father,
safe and secure in his long coat pocket.

Written by Jack Brewis