Single Malt Friend


Maybe the angels
gathered handfuls of grain
to chew
into liquid,
and whispered a
peaty secret into
mortal ears.

We never felt the angel’s whispers,
but we do the best we can:
shunning the blended
for this golden saliva
turning to air.

Down in the valley
of Sandy Hill,
(down by the riverside)
you’ll find my single malt friend:

already boasting
over latest acquisitions,
eyebrows arching
with forgotten whispers,

searching for secrets.

[for Seymour Mayne]

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