The Kind Of Pubs You Liked Poem by Robert Melliard

The kind of pubs you liked were dark inside,
and full of odd-shaped corners,
where candles dripped pale wax
down bottles on to old oak tables.

Reached by narrow, leafy roads,
they had sheltered, bushy gardens
where hedgehogs sniffed around
at dusk, on dampening lawns.

The kind of pubs you liked
had strange, old-fashioned recipes
and sold absurd, forgotten wines,
like damson, birch or gooseberry.

They were less efficient, probably,
than modern, franchised places,
but more authentic, warmer,
and several centuries older,
lovingly and luckily created.