Rainwater face on the head of a barrel,
Step from the tiled porch to a close friend’s dream:
Run your hand inside the jewellery box,
the varnished dado – cover the hoppy light that’s spiralling
from tabletop lamps to fairy lights, to filament bulbs and candles,
fixings and furnishings varnished to a glimmer
with damask crevices, amber walls and ceilings.
All types crowd along the pews
some recently regular, some just passing through
nursing their cloudy woolhouse brews
and living up to the wallpaper.
And couched in deep leather at the back of the saloon
Miss Archer and Miss Axtell are wary of the enlivening spirit
but the stained glass dulls the dark outside
and black broad windows ten yards off
return the light to the grotto where they’re together.
Eddie’s boy Sam has sketches and plans
for making sense of his dad’s lands
they’re building a crescent of lunar-white houses
and leaving space for a nice pub
Their mate Alex thinks he’s figured out
just how big the world is
they’re putting together a team for the quiz
huddling like the taps.
The ladies A. gaze knee-to-knee
at the shoulder-flush boys at the bar
sharing lamplit words about a future
older than the pigs on the wall.

By Rhys Lawrence