A pint of black.
With gratitude to S. Heaney.

Oft to the pub,
wooden slats or table gleaming
parting with warm gold for cold black,
dark, deep, like a foam-topped wellspring
or something.

I wish for thick, creamed ivory,
the first gulp, calvary to a tongue or gut,
handling still, ensuring the glug
and a page turned without a drip,
perhaps with a crisp.

Still, silent stupor,
licked, lapped, supped up misted dregs;
swirled, downed (oh I am now old),
a half for the road or till the next chapter,
never alone, solitarily.