A poem by BENJAMIN CAMPBELL.
Well, the walls enclose
our place in this pub –
We like it, at least.
A round is called for,
to clink and give thanks
for cheap Yorkshire drinks –
down through the gold O
of a shouted laugh
guffawed at a gaffe.
Tomfoolery. We
see autumn orange
of wilderness dales
roll within our ales.
It’s shrinking, this band
of merry young men.
Perhaps that’s why we
cling to our habits
like ancient tabards –
the sign of our time
and space, briefly bound
before the end of the round.
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