Humouring the Iron Bar Man

Ms Bar proudly surveying her handiwork

Was it really way back in September last year when I waxed lyrical about my acquisition of the iron bar of my dreams? How time flies. Since then I've kept said bar cossetted from the winter weather, fearing that the fine patina would be degraded by the harsh conditions we experience down here in Cornwall. But, yesterday with the barometer set fair, it was time to take her (with such a curvaceous shape, she can only be female) and do the things that only she could do.  With a prod here and a lift there, a whole pile of stones were soon extracted from the ground and the construction of a retaining wall began. Hooray for Ms Bar - she's certainly lived up to my expectations.  Long may she continue to delight.

And the title of this blog? It comes from a free-verse poem, Humouring the Iron Bar Man, by Graham Fulton, a native of Paisley in Scotland. Not my usual fare but it's well worth reading through a few times before doing it out aloud in the best Scottish accent you can muster.

 
My back
is to the window
I am
in the public house
sitting
on foam and torn
cloth
glancing
behind me from time
to time
into a void of churchy spires
and soft
blue
I think
I know
the barman among the tobyjugs
is dumbly
mouthing the secret words
IS
HE
BOTHERING
YOU?

it is
slightly pouring down outside
and inside I am shaking my
head
trying hard
not
to laugh
for
if I laugh or suggest
a smile
the man in the jacket
squelching beside me
who introduced himself to me nicely
will bash me with an iron bar
over
my head which will crunch
crack
in front of everyone
out
for a chat in familiar surroundings
safe
secure
just like he didn’t do before
to somebody else he insists
He is
just out of Barlinnie
I am
glancing behind me from time
to
time
into a void of churchy blue
and soft
spires
I thought I
knew
so well So wrong