A Tale of Two Pubs

These two pubs, unpaired
Not by compass and meridians
But by a subterranean,
Inexpressible knowing,
Where words are crude
Instruments failing to
Distinguish differing
Smiles of satisfaction

On a Saturday, for lunch,
Lynch and I and others
Traipse through slate-grey
Winter wind and drizzle
Like intent pilgrims
Discomforts disdained
To the Ruby Lounge
A meeting place for toothless old men

The real Ruby Lounge was far rougher and more dilapidated

And us, barely shaving
But young and old shuffle their way
Across the sawdust-strewn floor
To an altar rail, for communion
The priest, taking our offerings
Clasped with tattooed hands the tap
And poured forth the weekly libation
A pint of Youngs

Eyes meet, publican priest
With his latest converts,
Silenced initiates,
Their inexperienced hands
Still tracing the bevels
Of their fathers’ jugs
Embarrassed to show
Too much satisfaction

Smiles concealed,
We return,
Across the sawdust
To the wobbly table
Sticky with yesterday’s beer
And spoil the moment with
Mundane talk of Monty Python
And Parmesan cheese on toast

Maybe a bath and some spray later
And a trench coat if cold and dark
A collection of poorly paid pilgrims
Stomping their feet against the cold
Nudge away from minor village roads
To find the path across fields
Illuminated by a watching moon
Towards the waiting lights

Sadly, the Share & Coulter in no more…this pub has a similar feel if a bit busier

The Share and Coulter
There, eight animated souls,
Bums on wooden seats
With tied-on cushions,
A polished table and dry beer mats,
And a roaring fire just beyond…
Clueless to how daringly close
To heaven they’ve come, huddle

Pictures of long-dead Shires
And their barrelled drays
Looking on from the walls
Witness my blaspheming
And Christ’s secret agent asking
‘Why did you say that?’
Unseen angels lean in
Licking their lips