Spider's in
The Half Moon
afternoon,
eyes beaming under the
peak of his cap;
a drinker's smile
from the salt of the
earth.
He's dreaming of the
raging sea
and he sups a fretting
old pint;
getting ready to walk
over the teeming hill.
A drool in The
Shakespeare,
a let-slip of a grin,
academic locals
jawing themselves still
in dark rooms
of a Durham past;
brass bands blessed
on rampant days,
waves tumbling
from a balcony.
Praise be to Spider,
honour his life,
and
twinkling
through a city of bars.
