The Loggerheads Shrewsbury

 White scrubbed table tops, stumbling rickety legs
sweet-scented-smoke-cramped rooms,ginger ceilings
pealing anaglypta paper thick with caramel-varnish
old church pews a sort of comfort
on a Saturday night as pennies clink
on sacred slate, the game more serious
than Shrewsbury Town.
The Sacristan bids good night, Mass at seven
but we stay 'til closing time to stagger Wyle Cop
across English bridge hear the Rea babble
to the sleepy Severn passing the old pump house,
slow along Hereford Road reciting names of streets,
to home, see the silver brook glinting in the meadow
on its way to Coleham.