The ritual.

~The Poet’s Poet~

My taste buds were bursting

You stood there, temptingly

Devils brew?

NO, Golden Nectar

Pint sized

Black with a Bishops collar

Perfectly turned out

Mine, yes my pint of stout

Reaching out

I clasped you tight

Lifted you from the bar counter

Slowly I drew you too my lips

Paused

Took one more admiring glance

Then

One large swallow

Replaced you on the bar

It may be winter

But one swallow never made a summer

A nod in the direction of the barman

A companion was on the way

Black with a Bishops collar

Golden nectar.

© Chris Black. January 2019

#Poetry #amwriting #Guinness #Bishops collar a reference to the creamy head on a pint of Guinness.

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