The Drunken Lyricist
met that grey dull evening on the east shore.
round the bend he came, flat out
fifteen miles an hour, and stopped. We had
he turned off his engine.
It's going to
looks like: me.
Oa, I'm haardly
night wi weather, man! he said, flat cap
smile. Torched cheeks. Eyes' Atlantic
you seen any? Weemun? Whisky burned
golden road in him, and he would search.
that wun, man? – the shore's dark speck.
waiting a reply, through the bright wreck
that grey evening, he roared off, with a lurch.
tractor almost reared on its back tyres.
miles an hour flat out, parched by amber fires.
Gerry Cambridge. From The Shell House,
Cultural Press; reprinted by
of the author.