Tankard

Brewer’s Gold

Left Hand Milk Stout

Modus Operandi

Dirty Stop Out

 

Down at The Two Brewers

on a hook above the barmaid

a tankard hangs

with his name engraved

upon it, ‘Ron’,

in a thin, unpractised hand.

A small plastic yellow clip

coils around the base of the handle

to distinguish it

from some other of a similar design.

It is a warm evening,

one that shepherds delight in, and

Ron trudges down to the Brewers

to take a nip.

Ron loves the ale.

Real ale.

Ale without hiss or fizz,

ale with honesty, brewed

with truth and taste

and sweet bitterness

that curls gently around his tongue

and dwells in him

for hours to come.

Black Betty

Smog Rocket

Neck Oil

Chiff Chaff

She sees him pass the small

window before he gets to the door.

She reaches the tankard down.

He walks in.

She knows his familiar time

and his familiar taste.

“Tanglefoot, Ron?”

she asks.

“Not tonight, Jan.

Bit too strong for

a school night.

I’ll have the Wadsworths.”

He knows them all -

specific gravity

hop mix

age.

Fursty Ferret

Black Sheep

Green Devil

Goats Leap

Three is his limit

on a social night

when Richard is there, or Tom,

but most nights

it’s just one that he’ll sip for an hour

stood up at the bar

waiting for someone to talk to him.

Nun’s Ruin

Warlock Stout

Bumblethwacker

Ghost Ship

So the week he died

and they brought him home

and we gathered

like elephants

gently moulding his bones

with disbelieving trunks

I could not bear to think of his tankard

hanging unused for months

before someone

there behind the bar noticed

how dusty it had become

and took it down and washed it with just

a short thought

for Ron and

rehung it in its place

for fear of dislodging some fixture

in time

and space.

And then to repeat the process

A few weeks later

and wonder again and

maybe ask

the landlord or the other staff

whether they had seen

him. Had Ron been in

recently?

I could not bear to consider

that outcome. And so,

one frosty afternoon,

a week after the funeral

I wandered down to the Brewers

and with my heart pulsing

in my throat and my eyes

burning with uncried

tears I asked

if I could have Ron’s tankard,

the one with the yellow plastic clip

as Ron would not be coming

anymore.

Jan was not there. The young

man who stood behind the bar said

“Oh, right.  I don’t know him.

Has he moved away?”

And all I could do was say

“Yes.”

And take the tankard

and flee back up the sobbing hill.

Dark Moor

Black Mule

Barnsley Bitter

Skullsplitter

And so

I’ve got it now

stood at the back of the cupboard.

The yellow clip has gone,

unnecessary,

there’s no mistaking whose it is,

the looped engraving

still names the man

‘Ron’

Fabarillo

Funky Pigeon

Fat Sprat

Nip