A Wee Dram

The dancing flames lick gently at the grate,
a bottle splashes amber to the glass,
soft chimes reminding that the hour is late,
aromas drift of peat and harsh deer grass,
the smoky mist of morning, with each pass.
The glow of bonfires as I gently kiss,
letting the rich swelling flavours amass
and burn upon my lips, no thoughts but this –
“how can something so bitter bring such bliss”.
As if in answer, the fire spits a knot,
the kettle bursts with steam and deigns to hiss,
reminding me that good things can be hot.
I close my eyes in winter warmth and bask
in age old liquid nurtured from the cask.