Jamaican rum rattles on the mahogany, polished clean by sailors’ elbows. Here shines a welcome light, a home from home, a pleasing gloaming in the night for the sore-footed and the weary. A thirst-quenching tableau, a swinging saving sign, the old Ben’s Admiral bowed over his maps. A place for sitting in cosy corners, plotting courses and rousing rabbles and making and breaking plans. All mouth and no trousers by the time the bell sounds the end of your libertine libations and sends you all scuttling across the cobbles, laughing too loud, earning frowns and night-gowned tuts, and falling into a guttered sleep too deep for dreaming.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com