I find my place by the hearth each week,
Where fire’s not fierce, but slow and deep.
Not the roaring blaze of battle tales,
But embered warmth for thinking sails.
The beams above are cracked and low,
The laughter pitched in pub light glow,
And tankards rise to new rebels,
To toast old jokes or daring fools.
They trickle in with plots and schemes,
Their heads still fogged from half-thought dreams.
One speaks of steam in lunar soil,
Another charts a fusion coil.
A thing with wings that might just fly,
If only someone dared to try.
Their pens draw out their napkin maps,
While darts are thrown by solemn chaps.
No throne or crown controls them here,
Save Time, the tyrant they all fear.
He ticks from clocks above the bar,
He hurries thoughts, that might go far.
The wagers start in jest, of course,
“I’ll build it, if you name the horse.”
And just like that, the ideas burst,
With spills of ink, and growing thirst.
Yet in his shadow, they resist,
With wagers bold and banter kissed.
“A maglev rail through stratosphere!”
“Let’s duel by drone, but first, a beer!”
Their scribbles start as pub born jokes,
But gods did rise from such humble folks.
I nudge them gently, voice unseen,
Between the pint, a mad machine.
I linger near the varnished chair
Where genius rests unaware.
I whisper soft between the rounds,
And plant my seeds where thought abounds.
Some think the beer, to them it speaks,
Or pub smoke dreams, on rainy weeks.
But something stirs when fires are low,
Minds wonder where, most fear to go.
To them, I’m myth or mood or cheer,
A thought that comes with decent beer.
Yet I’ll return, as weekend calls,
To those low beams and mottled walls.
Where ink runs quick, and wagers spin,
And all things foolish dare begin.
And when they pause, and start to pen,
I’ll conjure thoughts in adventurous men.