In a quiet corner, an old man sat,
A pint of beer, a worn flat cap.
The crossword before him, ink-stained and neat,
A puzzle, a riddle, a mental feat.

His glasses perched on the bridge of his nose,
A furrowed brow, as his mind arose.
With every sip, a memory stirred,
Of days gone by, of stories unheard.

The pub around him buzzed and hummed,
But in his world, all was numbed.
The clinking glasses, the lunchtime cheer,
Muffled sounds, far yet near.

His pen hovered, a moment’s pause,
Lost in thoughts of forgotten cause.
A chuckle escaped, a clue made clear,
In that moment, time disappeared.

The crossword, a canvas of black and white,
A dance of words, a silent flight.
Each answer a piece of his history,
Each blank space, a whispered mystery.

In his solitude, he found delight,
In the simple joys, in the midday light.
A life well-lived, reflected in ink,
In the corner, he'd ponder, he'd think.

As the afternoon aged, the crowd thinned out,
The crossword completed, without a doubt.
The old man smiled, a gentle sigh,
Content and peaceful, he closed an eye.

In that quiet corner, he’d sit once more,
A pint of beer, a mind to explore.
For in the puzzles, he found his peace,
A tapestry of life, a sweet release.