In the Three Goats' Heads

It being a pint of bitter, he grabs the top
of the long handle, lathe-turned, graceful
as a sapling, and draws it again and again
toward his shoulder, the glass held high,
nozzle deep in the swirling gold, the head
piling up like summer clouds until it over-
flows the side and he places the glass
on the brass platform riddled with holes
to catch the sliding foam. He says the price
and I know by now which coins to hand him.
The glass is always too full to carry, which
brings me to my favorite moment:
the first few sips through the creamy froth
to bring it down half an inch or so. I sip
and it's a spring in the woods, a gourd
hangs from a nail for a dipper, there are
ferns and flowers, a singing bird recedes
through the forest sweetening shadows.

Kestrel, (2010) 25: 36.