A Northern Inn Poem by Peter Rogerson

A newly painted hanging sign
Adorns the Jolly Crofter's Inn.
Upon the olive drab, a rash
Of chippings form a pebble-dash
To match the shades of nicotine
That stain the surfaces within

The outside of the pub is more
Tasteful than within. The ceiling
Covered with an old brocaded
Paper that is brown and faded,
While round the woodwork and the door
The wallpaper is cracked and peeling.

Behind the bar a set of old
And dusty ornaments survey
The barmaids. Pallid and forlorn
They complement the tired and worn
Appearance of the room - the cold
And hostile feeling if decay.

A mill shift-worker and his wife
Come in. He has a pint of stout
And she a half. They slowly sit
Down by the window. Not a bit
Of 'Joi de Vivre' or spark of life;
No conversation filters out.

And as I quietly sit and think
The chill wind howls across the moor
Its frozen tongue exploring all
The pebbles on the olive wall.
I shiver as I sup my drink
And make my way towards the door.