The Ship Inn By Laura Ellison

Drop your anchor here and stay for a while,
Where gravy laps at the rim of warmed china plates under a flock of silent silver gulls
There is no river now – no salmon to catch, or banks to burst – and no smugglers either
But The Ship is still firmly afloat, and Sunday Lunch is served.

There is no lighthouse, but let the signs guide you in from the roar of the road with their winding ivy sleeves
The wood is dark, the fire is lit, and a fleet of mounted brass boats reflect its glow.
Relinquish the wheel to your captain and relax, they’re old hands at this by now –
Take stock of your crew mates, your fellow passengers, and together, watch other ships pass you by.

A peel of thunderous laughter rumbles from somewhere behind you, and you hear:
‘You’ll have to push me home in a wheelbarrow!’
You wonder where else home could possibly be, if not right here,
With the radio as your siren and the smoke in your hair.
You’re safe, says the red-and-white rubber ring on the wall, says the custard-covered bread and butter pudding in your bowl, says the fairy light constellation above you.

Or maybe you want to go on deck and spin the wheel yourself?
Or shelter from the storm amid driftwood and rope?
If the birdsong lulls you to sleep, don’t worry –
The cockerel will wake you at dawn.