MOUTHS OF TYNE

This poet’s wild imagination

is open all hours.

Fired by the flash of barmaids

I have worshipped,

I crawl the Shields bars,

seeking memories 

of old sailors.

Thrashing through The Jungle

of sun-kissed lounges,

I look for a date

with a Tyneside Dolly,

trawl through the faded papers

for a glimpse of a dashing blade.

My thirsty history is in these pubs,

seeping through The Porthole,

swimming with the Low Lights blues.

My tongue is wagging with excitement,

I am the talk of the Tyne,

one of the many mouths

of this swilling river

in our blood.

KEITH ARMSTRONG