What choice of tipple

What choice of tipple

Would spur him on

From this slow sloth

This deepest trough

Barely lying in the shadow

Half a chain from sanctuary

How many swallows

To bring him down so low

When the time was he enjoyed

A dram or two

Without the need of telling

The Ferryboat was a fine place

To stop for a bite to eat

And a drink without the worry

Of overstaying any welcome

She would come to meet him

Together they would tarry

Over moules molière

With fresh-cut, thick crust bread

Sharing their day with

Nary a thought of after-hours

Early to bed was a pleasure

Not a necessity

His old bowed legs now fail to carry

The putrefaction

To his stall

The chair in the front room

Is a halfway house

The bedroom is where she lay dying

On her own,

Whilst he was at the Inn

Shooting pool, throwing darts

Or anything

But making his way home,

Now he can’t go in there

The bed is not for using

The curtains never open

The guilty feelings growing

He steels himself with another one

Stumbles through the day

Dreams of ferryboats and Charon

Drowns himself in the river Styx

Wakes up in another ditch

In a field, by the garden gate

Where the Aberdeen Angus

Still nuzzle up

Against the back fence

Waiting for an apple

Splashes around in dirty water

Playing tag with beer cans

The morning air

Thick with the smell of cow dung

But never any roses

It is a wonder

He keeps waking up at all

One day he hopes he won’t

Why can’t it be this morning?