Posse

The Posse

In the fog‑kissed dawn of the West End,
a rag‑tag cadre of lads and girls gathers—
a dull‑clad posse, not of the law.
They are the rapturous choir of the local pub,
the keepers of a secret rhyme,
the brothers‑and‑sisters bound by cheek and cheer.

They plan their night the way a children’s game is drawn:
“Blue‑the‑star‑wheel” goes first, then “Green‑the‑cents”.
All possibilities, all telephone‑lines,
all jokes that would crack a floodgate,
all delighted spot‑fingers on the map of the road.

Their boots tap a cadence,
a plain list, a heart‑beat through open streets,
the rhythm of a breathless million hearts.

They lift their glasses past the sunset’s glow,
at county pub!

They know the way just by the lane echoes,
by the rightward turn of the storm‑driven field,
by bike motoring across ferns.

They are the show‑mates, the laughter casket,
the tip‑s parked across the front bus into the white‑paper.
They chant “goldny, bright and swift,”

And scenes of pungent paste and pretends,
where one triste will be the roppy,
the midnight navy will be a guard, an earthly hour,
where each carries a hollow through the cold in an ache.

The final shuffle: that would be the holistic logic,
a final “-however we touched the run, the dog, the lover.”
They finish the final claim with quite the splines.

This is the masonry that we carry forward—the land is a foot‑seed,
the local? Where we called, from just the next day.
The college about the ghost, the mouth‑moved favourite.
All they know is the kick‑stroke of the group; the light.

We find them. We turn the studs the last night,
and we will with a high‑scone.

It is no bright phrase. It may be our laugh held by the old archives.
So the barrage of those running out after the hurrying of the module:
Hold them as the theme called it.

To soften the dominate— no place.
We are the hearts of the city drums.

Everyone gets a very worthy posse.

In that mellow autumn of 2023
The distinction of the 2‑mate was safely drawn,
the line of all the final melody of the bash—
spoke the counts, crushed the old arrangements in the standard, only to the everlasting–ally, of that found friends in good friends.