Glass by Anne Rouse

You clambered into that glass of whisky

as the station bar was about to shut -

the tables curiously leaning into each other

like mates in a photo; the shutters scraped down,

the broom and dustpan flourished

with French hilarity, like the barman's goodbyes -

after a string of comforts, whiskys, Guinness,

heading off to pied-à-terre lodgings in Richmond:

no need for the unremarkable courage of the Dutch,

no glints in it, you are loved.