Thank you to the audience for contributing the words.
Ballad of the Twice Brewed
Listen. The wind mumbles deep and loud
for these border hills. Crag
wind – determined, dreich, proud.
Look. By the wall a lone stag.
My clagged feet are quiet.
But, there, there is good light,
a low light with which to pilot
this snake path in the night.
And walk on and on and more
until the light is plastic bright
at the old wood of the bar door.
Inside warm and airtight
as a lemon-dash, clink
glass velvet skin. Steak.
The soft shout of a friend. Think
of Northumbria and her lichen ache.