Through the crush of the crowd
A twenty in my hand Against the well worn bar I lean And wait The barman grasps the glass Starting the ritual His hand grips the icy cold tap And pulls Fire and froth issue forth Roasted amber fluid Within the glass it courses, swirls And foams White bubbles wind higher Inch by steady inch Until the clouds pass over the lip And fall Nestled now in my hand I raise the well poured beer Open my mouth, take a drink And smile. |
PoetryOccasional dispatches of florid prose and metre. Archives
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Copyright © Gerard Atkinson 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the owner is strictly prohibited.
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