I had a pet dog called Whisky.
This is not his story.
It was some time since I’d taken a whisky
The bottles languishing in some dark recess
Uncracked, untested, unsampled, unloved
Burning, smouldering, waiting in the night
Their golden smoke always tasted like “whisky”
Wiser tasters would discover hidden flavours
Smoothness, oakiness, smokiness, bittersweet
Simmering, glowing, glistening on the tongue
To my inferior palate it was always whisky
A simple taste without such deeper meanings
Pretentious, ostentatious, melodramatic, conceited
An exotic flavouring for Christmas truffles
In the distillery I ordered a measure of whisky
An after-dinner aftertaste deemed appropriate
Ordering, tasting, appreciating, sipping
Perfect accompaniment to coffee’s epilogue
The next morning I could still taste that whisky
A memory of flavour lingering on the tips of senses
Smouldering, inspiring, intoxicating, rewarding
Long after its last breath its moment remained
Martin A W Holmes, October 2016
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