Old men, perched on polished benches,
fogging the air with treasured pipes,
clutch glasses froth-filled to the lip;
their muted conversation growls lazily
across the sea of half filled bottles,
drowning syllables in dark beer.
With acknowledged skill the pretty lass
draws the cold draught, hissing, from the cask,
to swirl alluringly in angled glass;
her lilting brogue in soft words
rides the ocean waves of noise,
cutting the ebb tide of consciousness.
Their memories unlocked by drink,
the wrinkled men relate their tales of old-
when boxes spilled over with fat cod
that splattered to the heaving deck;
when sinews strained like the creaking warps
hold tight to the living sea floor.
-Michael Armstrong
