The poets of the public bar
by Gwil Williams
Email: gwil@aon.at
The young
men, wild rovers, sailing into the bar;
pals who
like their pilsner buxom-wenched
by the
golden fistful, barrel-glassed,
fresh,
fizzy and sparking lightweight verse.
But it's
mostly froth, airy, full of holes.
Blow it
away and you're left with what?
Half a
pot, perhaps?
The girl
pulled, we move to middle-aged;
settling
into it like a darkly bottled stout,
uncapped,
the glass held sideways.
Mature
taste with a little bitterness,
Solid fare
with the craftsman's touch,
Voices
of experience in dark corners
Under sentimental
sepia prints.
In clouds,
sinking slowly into oblivion,
like a
whisky sunset shipwrecked by the fire,
sits the
hand-trembling pipe-stoker
waiting
for last orders.
Can he
still find a decent domino?
"Ring
the bell, Bob."
