The bottles have been stored behind the bar,
Waiting for the moment to pop the top.
The aroma will tell tales from afar
Of the history of the Trappist crop.
It must be poured into its holy grail;
Its crown will be a creamy head of foam.
The watering of your mouth will curtail
The last destination of the beer’s home.
It will travel to your table by tray,
Becoming the coaster’s guest of honor.
When the first sip finally comes to play,
The complexity will make you ponder.
The tradition has endured the ages
Without it ever changing its stages.
John Collings 