Alan Pearson Poetry

Unscrew the top and breathe
the breath of Scotch: it never fails.
It all comes back in bits and pieces,
still there three thousand miles away:
the pub that squats on cobblestones,
that faces moors at highway bend,
or feels a seaside shower.

Inside, the always present banter,
- cheerful to a fault -
calls across a room to mates
or someone's over-painted date;
or, inside the Snug the bitter smell
of Craven A, a cough, a curse
at Aston Villa -
if not, some shit in management.

Hands meet with tenderness
above the intersecting rings
that wet with ale the polished tops
of tables, The flirty phrases
lost in ambient chat and banter
continue just the same.

Artful bulbs behind the bar
splash light across the Tetley pumps
and Guinness. A bit of mirrored wall
becomes a shifting collage:
a stuffed fox head above the mantle
catches firelight gleams
in glassy eyes.

Hard to credit how it all goes on
in this changed world -
without a change.
Horse brasses on the wall,
football talk and hearty kicks
at politics, goes on...

Goes on in southern villages,
down by Northern terrace houses.
Warm centres of fraternity:
they gesture, laugh, confide
through evening hours
but not with me.


	Pub Thoughts from Abroad




	Unscrew the top and breathe the breath of Scotch: it never fails. It all comes back in bits and pieces, still there three thousand miles away: the pub that squats on cobblestones, that faces moors at highway bend, or feels a seaside shower. Inside, the always present banter, - cheerful to a fault - calls across a room to mates or someone's over-painted date; or, inside the Snug the bitter smell of Craven A, a cough, a curse at Aston Villa - if not, some shit in management. Hands meet with tenderness above the intersecting rings that wet with ale the polished tops of tables, The flirty phrases lost in ambient chat and banter continue just the same. Artful bulbs behind the bar splash light across the Tetley pumps and Guinness. A bit of mirrored wall becomes a shifting collage: a stuffed fox head above the mantle catches firelight gleams in glassy eyes. Hard to credit how it all goes on in this changed world - without a change. Horse brasses on the wall, football talk and hearty kicks at politics, goes on... Goes on in southern villages, down by Northern terrace houses. Warm centres of fraternity: they gesture, laugh, confide through evening hours but not with me.