The King. 1667 quaint. At first Eagle with Child, then simply, The Eagle. She is lying in a courtyard in sunlight when I find her. Inside she’s darker. People visit from afar, to partake or to stare. Mostly, it’s her beer they are after. She smells like all her kind – like ashtrays. There is a greasiness about her and a carnivorous ardour. When I eat I smother her with ketchup and mustard and brown sauce. People are satiated when they leave, with empty plates behind them. Because I am not as hungry she throws me a look. I do like the wood around her chimney breast; they hide a host of sins. I do love her velvety carpet, wine red, with small white flowers on them. I would stroke it if not for cigarette burns. It tells me much about her past: her old lives and fond lovers. What fantasies unfold before my eyes as I linger on her premises, alongside older members of her establishment! They could not see past their eyes.
9 April 2000 / 17 May 2013
- Watson at the Eagle pub, 60 years later. (molbiohut.wordpress.com)