Covid Breeches and Cider with Roses

Yesterday was the first time I wore a skirt in fifteen months. Mostly, I’ve alternated between three pairs of jeans; no one sees your legs on zoom and elasticated waists have become an essential. But with Spring finally in the air, I decided to ditch the breeches. In celebration of promised sunshine, here is my poem, Stanley Bittersweet.

Stanley Bittersweet
sweet talked Cider Rose
meeting and greeting her
through the brown tinted glass bottle.

Cider Rose frothed and sparkled to Stanley's foam, 
wanting him to unscrew her bottle top
whilst she ring pulled him into a cocktail glass.

But Stanley's strength failed, 
being only 4.5%.
So Cider Rose asked the strong-armed publican
to undo her top.
And Stanley's sweetness turned bitter.
Cider with Roses

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