Klaus

Klaus by the Old Waterfront

Beneath the blue of the Thames‑bank sky,
Klaus walks the cobbles, a quiet wry grin,
Did a half‑pint in a Chelsea corner,
His laugh tucked beside a battered flat‑iron.

He wears a wool scarf, a faintly tartan trim,
His shoes polish to a faint green sheen,
The scent of fried fish and the hum of the queue,
Lights flick containing a scheduled skyline.

In the afternoon, the air smells of rain,
The river whispers as boats go on their way –
Klaus breathes in the fine salty breeze, and in his heart,
He thinks of old heroes, his modest glory, maybe even –

Just a man who loves his beer with a half‑gallon of the best brew,
Who can still “include” his friends in a gone‑round “chai” three‑min tea at the café,
Who, like Lionel, will still feel for a line‑up of stars,
Because “football” is his life, the pitch a living fiction.

So we rest our rhyme, the quiet final cue,
And let him beat the London rain –
Klaus his paw, its “Sense” in the dark, a humour “organise” –
Because he may live in the UK, but his pride is gentle, slightly Poetic.