In Cornish your name means ‘book’,
in Danish it’s the present tense of ‘lie’,
as in ‘untruth’.
Today we parked in your street
three years since you closed for good,
and you’re like a ghost pub, your black exterior
with gold lettered ‘Free House’ and ‘Guinness’ all tatty,
dulled brocade curtains block your windows inside
and uncanny circus posters on the outside,
your doors dirtied, finger-marks at the top
as if zombies have been clamouring to get in.
I first sat on your manky looking but supercool
repurposed bus seat benches
when I was underage in the ‘eighties,
you always had a dingy edgy rock music feel
and your toilets were disturbing,
stinking with a door that didn’t lock.
A few visits in the twenty-first century
for being the last pub open
and for your late-night atmosphere –
I’d be sober for driving
but my group would stumble down pleasantly
for the dregs of the night, silly fine talk
and ear-blasting music.
I’ve stopped drinking,
but it’s sad you’re gone.
20/04/17
Katy Ewing
Deep Mapping Dumfries 