The cobblestones, the narrow streets
the gray and dreary, overcast sky,
the harbor with its swaying masts.
Nature’s smell, the ocean’s breeze,
pub steps – worn - a welcoming door.
A drunken chorus sung in rounds,
an ode to whiskey, a smooth pour,
her warmth, her taste, her bite.

A pint of stout, a biter embrace,
a thick and heavy, hardy pour.
Chips and salt blunt the taste
and leave one still craving more.
The plain and jolly smiling faces
of an, Irish, home spun crowd.
The burning hearth, warm embraces,
a friendly peaceful sound.

08/25/2003

Posted on 08/25/2003
Copyright © 2025 Brian Francis