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.


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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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