Visiting once more brought the smells all back,
Stout, mixed with cigar smoke, maybe.
I guess it still lingers; Damp had crept  into the only wall left
Burrowing its way in, nesting in the crevices.
It must have been 6, maybe 7 years to the day
When I got a beer from Seamus at the bar
And watched Jack, Billy and Sean down Guinness
With all the finesse of  blind dogs.
What dogs they were though, the furious three;
Piercingly loud they screeched
At every dart that narrowly escaped the clutches of the bulls eye
And nestled itself in the matted padding of the run-down walls.
Even on its last legs, Carlton Vale still kicked with its escaping life;
Now it is clear that desire to fight
Went away the moment the bulldozer touched that first wall, and
All that is left is Billy’s lucky dart
Defending its resting place in the centre of my memories.