This month's offering is dedicated to my father, Victor Peskett, who died on 31 March after a long illness. My dad was a teacher by profession, spending most of his working life in Northern Ireland. In his long retirement he worked on community projects in his Suffolk village. He was keenly interested in local history and wrote a charming little book on the care of the poor in 18th century rural Suffolk. You can find more details of this here.
Barman
I'll return to the Black North
and tread lightly
where before I tried to dig my heels.
I've drunk good beer in Ireland
and have been weaned
and aged on the tightest wisdom,
the most serene observation.
I am a stranger in both lands,
am accepted wholly neither
in bar nor lounge.
I see how it is to blame
and be blamed
on both bleak sides
of the impossible water.
Where must I be born
to be loved by all my regulars?
How can I be the barman?
When up for the last round
what can they do
to see through the swing door,
the mirror in between.
Barman is taken from my book Selected Poems.
Barman
I'll return to the Black North
and tread lightly
where before I tried to dig my heels.
I've drunk good beer in Ireland
and have been weaned
and aged on the tightest wisdom,
the most serene observation.
I am a stranger in both lands,
am accepted wholly neither
in bar nor lounge.
I see how it is to blame
and be blamed
on both bleak sides
of the impossible water.
Where must I be born
to be loved by all my regulars?
How can I be the barman?
When up for the last round
what can they do
to see through the swing door,
the mirror in between.
Barman is taken from my book Selected Poems.
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