The piano in the garden of The King Street Tavern ...

Whenever I'm in Southsea, I wonder whether to spend an evening in The King Street Tavern - 

I'm almost certainly meeting up with Richard - I'll have spoken with the learned proprietor of Adelphi Books - 

I'll skim read a lurid pulp - the wild shelves will promise me dusty marvels - I'll sigh over a foxed volume of theosophy - 

I'll then remember the worn red carpets of The King Street Tavern, the mellow Coltrane played there during Sunday lunchtimes - 

Last Friday evening we spent some time there - we'd just downed bumpers of an oaky Rioja in Rosie's - 

The quiet elegant street was bathed in moonlight - 

Opening the door, we saw a wall of young men in polo shirts - 

Sam was behind the bar - he greeted Richard - I admired Sam's glossy quiff - 

Richard told me Sam had taken up skate boarding - 

We wove our way through the bravos and bare shouldered girls to the garden - smokers gathered here like Gunpowder Plotters -

I'm sure I once smoked a cheroot here - 

Alarm clocks nested upon a beached upright piano - candles guttered in a candelabra - 

We sat at a wrought iron table, sharing confidences - 

I wondered if I'd irritated Richard slightly with my talk about the gym - 

Then the name of a piece of piano music fell into my mind, Liszt's Le mal du pays - 

21.00

September 13 2014

The garden of The King Street Tavern

Southsea