Mud flew from cleated boots

kicked against a granite rock.

Gravel chattered underfoot.

A wrought iron latch

clacked a welcome.

 

Pushed open,

the weathered door vented mist,

shouting into cold nostrils,

of damp flag stones and panting dogs.

 

The moist pub fug reached out,

to warm chills; singing of beer and meat pies.

Thirsty throats and empty stomachs

growled a terse response.

 

Claws clicked, benches groaned,

muscles gave thanks mutely.

Blued, brown eyes watched every movement.

A long tongue rolls in a red yawn.

Waiting for the shared pie.

 
 
David Garlick, Nantwich, UK, June 1999