Lunchtime
And the fresh moose lipped smack
Of cool beer, gently lapping;
The clack, clack of the French
Cricket pitch of a pool table,
Surrounded by bow-legged beeches,
And stirrup-worn boots
Tired of riding.
A breakfast bagette droops wearily
Across a forgotten saddle bag,
The day
Drowned in spilling and swilling beer
Like laughter
Frothing and streaming,
Reflecting,
Lunchtime.
Caroline Baldock ©1978