( 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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