Clink

The Clink

In a snug pub at ten‑one on a Sunday,
the bar‑ches contribute their quiet rhyme,
let a dozen grey‑washed pints align,
their glassy hearts wrapped in a silver sheen.

The clink – a liquid whisper – bursts the silence,
a tiny thunder of measures, not of war;
so many stories in that single roar
from shy hearts, to lovers, to starlit licence.

Each time the cups meet, they sing a secret code:
a toast to friendship, a salute to distance,
supplies of courage, a quiet persistence.

And somewhere beneath the clink, a clerk remembers the clock,
his favourite mug half‑full, a stray memory,
a page‑turning moment, a fleeting poetry:
a brief note that the night has not yet turned to darkness.

In that clink, there lies the colour of hope,
a light that flickers, breaks, and glows through the glass;
the rhythm of life pressed into a single sound,
a British anthem played in a clumsy, honest splash.