In autumn when the bonfire men
send their smoky whispers
across to Seven Sisters,
Highbury and Islington,
The old air holds a pigeon’s song,
A song of chestnut fires and charcoal-tired
eyes and the long, cold-nip night to come.
At dusk their signal is answered by
brazier-gazing football men,
Black-hatted, donkey jacketed,
But by the song connected with the
rugby gents, the brown ale men
who man the pubs of Borehamwood
and stand their round, and understand
how much of life is made of moods.