Pub, 7pm
It is a low church,
without sober prayer,
rough years, sixty-plus,
blinded Sky-high stare:
Unaltered transfix,
upon sports, by God,
matched-crucifixion,
across the green sod.
They tip their flat pints,
on last sure-winners,
each sup a delay,
to home-cooked dinners:
Stood tall-table straight,
with concentric rings,
beer becomes central,
at last order’s rings.
50.97254660.0987612