The Local

A scarred and dusty bar-top
One million overlapping rings decorate the wood
And the odd burn from a careless smoker
Whose attention had been devoted to talk
Or the muted TV high in the corner
And not the smoldering fag-end in his hand

Seven taps along the counter
Each displaying a familiar name and badge
And for the ladies; dusty bottles of gin on shelves
That run along a tarnished mirror
Aging whiskies and exotic rums for the connoisseur
Fizzy sweet orange juice for the children, sticky to touch

And on the walls the pictures
Tell a story of a thousand words
Of friends and foes, family and strangers
Of winning teams and epic games
Lets not forget the saints- JFK and John Paul II
Who look down from their positions above the marble mantel

Which sits across the smoky peat fire
That crackles and pops on cold winter days
And draws you to its dancing flames
Outside rain thrashes and a bitter wind blows
But in this place you are in the warm heart of the world
And the old clock by the door ticks away another Sunday