A Candle For Mr Sokolowski
Mr Sokolowski cut hair
In a one-room shop, with till and toiletries,
Chairs and a tall bright mirror. This lit cave
Was Mr Sokolowski’s life, this floor
He cleared of its soft sweepings, endlessly,
And these still heads, like heads in prayer, that he
Addressed so fluently, with flashing scissors
And barber’s talk, like candle-ends, relit
Smilingly for each new customer:
The match on Saturday, children, the weather.
Who was Mr Sokolowski? Once
A customer spoke of his fussy child:
‘Eats nothing.’ Mr Sokolowski’s eyes
Altered then, I saw it in the mirror.
‘You get hungry, eat damn anything.
Ate rat in Russia. Some, worse thing than rat.’
Snip. Snip, snip. The customer’s reflection
Nods a surprised and meaningless agreement
And Mr Sokolowski smiles once more:
‘So, what you think for game on Saturday?’
Mr Sokolowski shut up shop
Years ago; retired; some seaside place.
Must be dead now: even survivors die
To dream no more of cutting hair, the weather,
The match on Saturday, or other things.
David Sutton 
Hello!
Very clever-like it a lot.
Came here after looking for Rising Damp by UA Fanthorpe after reading about the Ramblers call for signposted walks along London’s lost rivers.
Now will go and find Adlestrop
Thank you. Adlestrop the place is still there, a pleasant little village, but the station closed long ago, courtesy of Dr Beeching, though it was still open when I went through it on a cycling tour in 1961 one hot afternoon, a distillation of sleepy Middle England not at that point much changed from Thomas’s time.