Betsey Trotwood

Betsey Trotwood on Farringdon Road
with its dark green walls and wood
like an out of use Masonic lodge.
There are chandeliers blooming
like bromeliads hung with pearls,
a stag's head with an eyepatch,
a fifties standard lamp, setting sun,
bronze bust of Edith Cavell maybe,
and a painting of Elizabeth Hurley.
The brown ale pumps bulge, tall
and shining like chess pieces.
On the counter, tin buckets of bottles
of ketchup, vinegar, Lea and Perrins,
behind bottles of pale ales and gin
glint like grapes. The board is scribed
over with French Reds badly spelt
in white chalk. The tables are pale,
grey like dust jackets of old books.
In here there's an orange haze,
like the air is blushing from a shot,
the walls lean making a bower
and all around chairs curl up,
creaking like choir children
shuffling hushed into a pew.

The pictures in the windows
of ambulances, traffic lights,
space to let, cones and brick,
alarms and engine roars
stretched into the falling afternoon
seem thin, and sad, and blue.