Stout
Monday 13 July 2026
poetry
In the dim glow of the tavern’s fire,
A stout sits dark as midnight’s mire,
Its head a creamy, soft attire,
Whispering of roasted barley’s choir.
Each sip a warm, robust surprise,
A labour of hops and patient sighs,
Where bitter sweet and malt comply,
In Britain’s pint, the stout never dies.
