Monday, August 5, 2013


( On Mispronouncing A Good Bottle Of Scotch.)

I thought you were named

after a bird in the glade, glenfinch,  a bird

whose throat bloomed with song

when the first rays struck

the  broom and heather.


A bird who inspired secrets

and made the meeting place

intimate with wild sweetness

that uttered through the rushes

and rippling lake.


A bird who fetched the girl

unfettered in her gown --- of muslin fine

as the gossamer moth

waving its wings on a stalk


and chasing any impulse

to reclaim her gingham threads

 which still clung to a hook

in the closet, still drawing  in


the schoolroom dust. I thought

you were named after  the voice

of her lover, the highland Poet

who slung a sack over   his shoulder

and filled it with reeds

for ink or fire.  Pen or taper;

each  quietly expressing light,  and somewhere

between the writing and the burning –

there was  as a  bottle of whiskey

on an oak mantle. 

                             and nothing else.

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