THE TABLE - Rowan Aberyswyth

Here we sit again.
Despite centuries of experience, hardship, joy,
It all returns to this.
3 people around a table, sipping ale of some kind.

"Closer to piss than ale," one says.
The ale's improved.

Another longs for pointy hat and priestly ways,
Fanatical gleam in his eyes.
No more witches to burn, dear.

Besides, you couldn't catch me anyway.

I long for weapons
To strike down my foes with honor and steel,
Not words and glances.
The old-fashioned way was so much easier.

How long has it been?
We can't agree anymore. But we all agree
On scene and wench.

"Freshen your drink, gov'nor?"
Curly hair, red dress,
Very little left to the imagination.
The serving wenches have improved too.

There's a sense of continuity, despite the differences.
Red thinks we'll all be sitting like this again
at some point, in some time.
Perhaps. Things do go in circles, after all.
So one day, I'll undoubtedly be struck
By the need to enter a pub,
Sit down at a table
With 2 strange men, and reminisce about
The Good Old Days.

Why don't we find a place with decent ale next time?