The mesmerism of bottles and taps,
their totemic appearance out of the obscure
confines of the snug sanctuary of the Saloon.
All pubs need a symbol, this one’s was a plane.
The Viscount an old two propeller,
summoning up images of post-war flight.
The majesty of peaceful new horizons Blitz free!
Polished silver trophies rested solidly
beside the black and white photographs
of the teams of men in long shorts.
No postmodernism here, thank you very much.
Nor, any other concessions to the abyss outside.
Instead, what we had presented was a form of Irish-
Cartesian order and method, fused with absolute craic
delivered by Beckettian dialogues in varying degrees of inebriation.