For some the ale-house was a warming
cloak
One pulled round burdened
shoulders when the thin
Blood feared invasion by the
rolling roke1
Whose drowning fevers warned the
soul of sin,
Whose pestilence relentless
stalked each loke2;
Moiled memories of plague pressed
crowding in
To sit behind their eyes; they
felt the yoke
Of loneliness; they heard death’s
dance begin.
They turned their backs. The cloak of fellowship
Was tighter drawn; they cleared
their throats to sing;
The tankards married, kissed each
bearded lip;
Mulled hope hissed, eager;
laughing hearts took wing.
As tallow candles smoked, began to
dip,
Worn faces, flowering with flame,
knew spring.
(November,
1988)
1 roke: sea
mist
2 loke: cart
track or small lane
