Two men lie flat on their backs
together in the tomb
each, their hand gently clasped
around a pint, gauntlet removed…
Our eyes travel down their trouser-legs
the stone ripples with jest and ribaldry
these merry gentlemen resting together
like blood brothers in congealed memorial effigy.
Through time’s worn tunnel they hold,
supine, their gladiator’s hard pose
until we see through history’s divergent funnel
with a start of unease, their entwined toes.
Am I La Belle Dame to sculpt so poignantly
this solid evaporate vision of bar room smoke:
two blokes cradled in a pub in stone
having a good old moan about me?
No I am just a grotty ancient fairy
writing rot in tender strokes
inspired by drunken men without love or mercy.
What will survive of me? Jokes!