This poem by Society member Geraldine Cousins was included in our 2018 selection, Folio #72
Mist and frosts in November mean it's time to fetch a bottle of Guinness with its signature of the first Dublin brewer in red flourishes. The glass so dense it turns the matt black label brown. Pouring ale over fruits, peels and spices, smells of roasted barley, breezy hops, take me back to endless summers in my aunt's kitchen. Wrapped in huge coloured towels we all huddled shivering after the morning swim. Champ and Lance thwack our wet legs with flanks and tails. Uncle Wint, who always makes things happen, makes things possible insists everyone takes a glass of Guinness 'to warm your cockles' he says. Being youngest I'm let off after a couple of gulps. Before I even wipe away my froth moustache a glow of heat surges through my innards.