A poem by BENJAMIN CAMPBELL.   Well, the walls enclose our place in this pub – We like it, at least.   A round is called for, to clink and give thanks for cheap Yorkshire drinks –   down through the gold O of a shouted laugh guffawed at a gaffe.     Tomfoolery. We see autumn orange of wilderness dales   roll within our ales. It’s shrinking, this band of merry young men.   Perhaps that’s why we cling to our habits like ancient tabards –   the sign of our time and space, briefly bound before the end of the round.     Featured Image Source: unsplash.com

Last Call