Poem: Archaeologist's lunch

Muddy boots at the door,

He takes his pint

And makes his way between

The table and the wall

To settle in a corner by the fire

Surrounded by his colleagues,

Full of bonhomie;

He smiles through his beard,

Wipes away the beer’s froth

With the back of his hand

And enters the fray,

Debating the issues of the day:

Signs that remain

Of other gatherings,

Other days,

Not so different,

Not so far away

©Phil Colbourn, 04.viii.2011

[12.i.09; reworked 10.xii.09; 11.i.10; 21.i.10]