Measure of spirits

Where voices chink and rattle,

tales grow tall.

There used to be dominos

clacking like clichés of northern washerwomen

sour over fences.

Harry Bailey, Chesterson, Winsty, ole John

hunched to their spots.

Shillings did the rounds.

Dry coughs like phantom snare drums.

She’d allow the piano once a week, never more.

Beams rose again at the Old Bull and Bush.

The Fisherman’s Rest stretched its pike six more inches.

The George parried harder with its pens. And

somewhere down Gin Lane,

Miranda’s memory still accused.

 

 

 

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