For Jerry, a Poem

 

There's some corner of Islington that will

for ever be, threadbare cared for, thrust

in a bear-like, where we lip up the summer,

hoard the winter, where the one in gets supped. 

 

There's some corner of Islington that will

forever be, sláinte trimmed

regardless of footfall or football or wobbly form,

that picks affectation warm, 

in shouts to the brim.

 

There's some corner of Islington that will

for ever, be braw-tale anointed,

unthinned, informed, dovetailed and pointed, never skirting the grim.

 

There's some corner of Islington that will

ever be, tourist info, London-list proud, 

way beyond Engand, library-brained, for all

newborns and all newcomers.

 

There's some corner of Islington that will

for ever be, victorious, despite the Gunners,

breezing wheesy through a landlady's bain that

loves anny televised sport and hates anny rain.

 

There's some corner of Islington that will

for ever be, play it nice and cool son, nice n’ cool

where a bar workers’ fall-breaker later

is the exception that proves the rule.

 

There's some corner of Islington, that will

ever be, a game of stool chess, 

the ice-driven politik,

learnt of friends and gentleness,

with a hand on arm and a slop of a kiss,

where they'll turn it up a bit,

where they'll play the drum slowly,

where they'll play the fife lowly,

where they'll pour him a pint as they lower him down.

 

There’s some corner of Islington that will

for ever be, Jerry’s, where sorrow may always be drowned.