The poets of the public bar
by Gwil Williams
men, wild rovers, sailing into the bar;
like their pilsner buxom-wenched
golden fistful, barrel-glassed,
fizzy and sparking lightweight verse.
mostly froth, airy, full of holes.
away and you're left with what?
pulled, we move to middle-aged;
into it like a darkly bottled stout,
the glass held sideways.
taste with a little bitterness,
with the craftsman's touch,
of experience in dark corners
sinking slowly into oblivion,
whisky sunset shipwrecked by the fire,
for last orders.
still find a decent domino?
the bell, Bob."