A Wee Dram

“The Gainsborough” Victorian pub, Strand road:
engraved windows, mahogany, brass rail, gilt edges.
A late-morning sparseness and subdued hum
as the old man ushers me in.
A brief banter about under-age admission,
the old boy quips his excuses,
ordering beer and a whiskey chaser.

Cornered in a snug under the smoked-window,
the traffic-loud exterior fades.
He's keen to make things easy -
no fuss, no trespass, just an out-take
from the hurly-burly going on outside.
His “just one snifter” slips away
and then he's up again, bar-bright, gibber-loud,
firing wit at early locals.

He returns flushed and full-on
half-dad, half-mate, on the cusp of merriment
sensing my unease, the way I balk
before his shape-shifting transition.
Mostly, it's his voice that alarms,
already higher-toned and newly slurring.
So it starts - always started - and I sink as he rises,
both of us poised for respective escape.