Another late night at Ye Old Cross Inn,
the innkeeper’s wife turfed out the crowd
while he took stock of the ale left within
and rattled the necks of bottles of stout.
Together they watched their patrons stagger
up the slope from Alnwick’s Narrowgate,
following the lamps with glints thin as daggers
to cold doorsteps where angry wives wait.
And as the innkeeper reached for the bottles
that sat by the window on a blackening wall,
his wife glanced up, clearing pipes of their dottle
and saw him land hard from an unlikely fall.
Clutching his body, the wife felt a chill:
those four dirty bottles were frightfully still…
Thi Dorty Bottles is a piece from Vivien’s Workshop on Sonnet and Free Verse Poetry 27-05-2020. This poem was inspired by Ye Olde Cross Inn of Alnwick, Northumberland. The mythic bottles can be found inside…