Tenderly wept the taps,
slipping tears of beer
into his short clasp
as if they knew then
what we know now.

He did not drink, but
the stout fingers made clubs
of the epithets he hurled
randomly as he drove
the men from the bar.

And once gone he locked
the battered black door
through which generations
had passed, and walked
away. A crepuscular

pallid Englishman,
he returned to less daunting hills.
Time called on the clachan,
it warms now only
in term time or when the team play

and yet, the cherry trees
still blossom, the taps
still weep their regular tears,
and lives still too
(but now only every other Sunday).