Tis time for Death by Broken Shoelaces over at Desperate Poets. Pop over and read some of the finest poets in this small corner of Poetdom.
how small is one sip?
that could be a whole poem right there
maybe it is
it began at bunnahabhain
on the wild coast overlooking Jura
across the sound of Islay
a wander through the bowels of the place
history seeping
from the black stained vault walls.
angels breath all about us.
here was the gold
liquid and rare.
6 medicine bottles did we tak fae there
that cold October day
to hold and tae keep
until next we met
one year on.
i was to be the keeper
given the difficulty of smuggling
such treasures away from Scotland
to the US and to Malaysia
homes of the other two conspirators.
sealed time bombs in my care
for savouring another day
nae bother.
here now winter comes
and the 6 winking at me
in the dark solitary nights
with the cold nipping at my nose
and the less sacred booze gone already.
there the gold liquid 6 whispering promise
from the shelf above the desk
of a warmth like no other
how can the idea of one sip
now become a planned visit to the Isle
to replace the whole batch
before they returned.
how can you know
with dread certainty
that just the thought
of that one dram would end
with 6 empty vessels
before you even tasted it.
but even as i uncorked number 6
even in the blur of the early dawn
of god knows how many days and nights
i rationalised it all as just
one
more
sip.
just a drop in an ocean of loss.
Notes:
In my defence your honour.
This Amontillado hand-filled cask strength of 21 year Scotch whisky, has been maturing in our coastal warehouses. A truly elegant dram, with earthy, rich nuts and spicy notes followed by soft sweet manuka honey, salted caramel and a delicate aromatic note.
Paul Scribbles 
My father — an itinerant Iona traveler — loved Glenmorangie, another of those rare nectars, distilled in Tain in the Highlands. Having a wee dram of it with him was a special intimacy. Angel’s breath for the faithful (eventually I wasn’t). How did those bottles empty? One golden sip at a time — Lord knows how many broken shoelaces cried for it … But as one of our crew has said, poetry is cheaper.
Tis cheaper and yet there is a still perhaps a coin of sorts to pay in the excavation of those lost days and lands, if I am to be honest in the endeavour.
The demise of a half dozen bottles begins with the first sip, or so says Lout Tzu. For some of us, there is only the first sip and then the blur and wreck of the rest of it. Thus I stick to Coca Cola. I’d make a poor Scotswoman I suppose.
–Shay
I doubt that drink is the measure of a good Scotswoman.
The poem reads how my dad used to talk about drinks, especially whiskey – some words that sound familiar to me and enticing, but are of a land whose promises I cannot keep. Brilliant write, I especially enjoyed the variances in the language of the words and accents, I think it gave a unique spirit to the writing.
Thank You for your perceptive and warm observations.
A sad sweet song, full of the melancholy of that first sip that becomes the last dram, stolen from life, stolen from trust, blurring the purpose…beautiful, deeply welled pain, all undrownable, yet so hard to stop trying and just float…I love the sense of place that permeates this like a liquid in which the meaning is suspended. One of my favorites of yours I’ve read, Paul. Fine, lilting work.
Thanks Hedge. I appreciate those words. I think it could say more…might need a re-visit.
“Just a drop in an ocean of loss.” That says it all. I really feel this one, Paul. I love all the Irish words, which add so much fae beauty to this wonderful poem.
Thanks Sherry. Scots more than Irish but whose counting when they are brothers for sure 😉
Beautifully rendered… that’s exactly how it goes, one more sip, one more time, one more day…and suddenly we’re drowning in an ocean.
I mostly drink water these days; the whiskey sits above the microwave. Sometimes I wish to swim, or drown, I suppose, but pain is an excellent deterrent. Good to read you again, Paul ~