At the Lock in Wolverly


The Lock, a tree-clad bikers’ pub with ivy grown across oak beams
That sits besides the winding cut from where it stole its name, it seems.
It’s counterpart, with sluicing gates, lifts barges up outside the door.
Here lazy summer nights are spent in drinking beer and eating pork
Pies – there’s none better anywhere. I’ll wager you my hat on that.
Lost deep in darkest Worcestershire, as evening falls it draws the bats
Out of the trees to hunt the wasps that stole our beer to distant sounds
Of wood on willow, gentle clapping, ‘Howzat’ from the cricket grounds.
The leathers squeak, the glasses clink, the jackets are removed from benches,
Bikers snort and kick their wheels and tap exhausts with oily wrenches,
Down a swift half, don their helmets, dimp their roll ups, then roar off
In clouds of blue smoke, haunting ghosts that spread like fungus as you cough.
A hundred beetles disappearing through the rolling sandstone hills.
The temperature begins to fall as shadows climb the windowsills.
Just one more pint and then we’ll leave, and one more pork pie, just for luck.
We’ll walk the towpath home in darkness and hope we don’t fall in the cut.

14 responses to “At the Lock in Wolverly

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