Miss Nellie's In The 'Fifties
The pub is old and still is lit by gas
by Pete Crowther
Its taproom walls and ceiling golden brown,
With faded pictures from a bygone age,
A moralizing text that’s framed in oak
And last year’s farming calendar, half-torn.
In quiet comradeship, and sitting by the door
As custom rules, the old men smoke their pipes
Tonight no different from a hundred such.
Across the room around a trestle table
Sit four young men with glasses of Old Ale.
With ears alert to calls for another pint
Miss Nellie, bent and frail, is busy at the sink
Her eyes are bright, her movements quick and bird-like
She wears a long dark skirt and neat black boots.
No-one would dare to risk her disapproval.
The four young men, embarking on another round,
Have almost reached that blissful stage wherein
One thinks to grasp Life’s deepest inner meaning,
But strives in vain to put it into words.
Miss Nellie gently hints that time is “getting on”.