As the light fades ever faster,
and the temperature dips
a foreboding grips
as I am recalled
to this dialogue with the dead
that continues in my head.
My grandfather, Jack, had his last pint of mild beer 
in this pub before
embarking for France in late summer 1914.
And his first one back in November 1918.
He remains forever known, never seen.
Now businessmen and women
sit playing with their phones.
They wouldn’t know a pint of mild beer
If you threw one in their well-scrubbed ear.
Sometimes I am possessed by Jack’s spirit:
his temper and his bravery,
his ability to see right through hypocrisy,
like a cardiac surgeon uncovers the aorta,