November's Tavern

Fire flickers out from the hearth,
To warm the back of the stranger,
Hunted close by the law-hounds,
Smelling the smoke of cured ham hanging,
Lantern swaying from the roof.

Not hearing the kitchen boy’s footsteps
Flying from the back door at his master’s word,
To summon the sound of Bow Street Runners.
Relaxing now with the bite of crispy pastry,
Fireworks let off for Guy Fawkes Night,
That other traitor hoist by his own petard.