I enjoyed that pint in the Woolpack,
Laurie Lee's old local.
Had I known he was fond of a friendly
drink with strangers
I would have sought him out
in one street Slad
and 'put one in the pump' for him
as a way of saying 'thanks'.
But misreading a biography
I thought he shunned uninvited company
I was set straight by his obituary
but by then the chance had gone.
If only I had worn my glasses
that morning over breakfast
I could have toasted, with the regulars,
the poet, the novelist, the loving hobo fiddler.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem