This week I have been challenged to write a poem about drink, but not necessarily alcohol. After a walk and a lot of thought these two poems are my response. Both are accomapnied by a pots from my previous existance. I sometimes wonder where they are today and almost wish that I hadn't sold them. But if I had kept all the pots I made goodness knows where I would put them today. For most of my potting life I would shift up to two tons of clay a year and the majority of the pots weighed between half a pound and four pounds - that's quite a lot of pots.

HALF FULL – HALF EMPTY

The mid-day sun is hot
The beer is cool
The colour of a Dartmoor stream
Splashing, swirling round boulders
Trout lying in the eddies
Waiting for a unsuspecting fly
Foam caught in whirl pools.
Froth upon the well poured pint
Clings to the upper lip
Of a blue eyed youth
White blond, deep tanned
And in his glass half full
Bubbles collapsing slowly unobserved.

‘Another of the same’
The pint pulled by a girl
With bosoms overflowing
An invitation to forbidden fruit
A come and get me smile
Defended by the bastion of the bar
Untouchable.
The drinker heavy jowled
Eyes hungry in a florid face
His gut supported by a belt,
A belch, a hasty swallow
The glass half empty but who cares,
The money’s there, there’s plenty more to come.

‘Thanks mister – mines a pint’
The old man sits
And mumbles by the fire
No question here
Half full, half empty
There is nothing left
No swirling energetic stream
No foam, no froth
No summer light
So while there’s time
Landlord, another round.