Whiskey

In the beginning there was bread
Bread from grain then from that grain
Whiskey

Kiln dried, it’s Irish you see
So the whiskey is spelled with a ‘e’

In Scotland it’s boiled over twice
In Ireland once more – distilled thrice

In a barrel three years to gain flavor
Then two drops of water to savour

From grain to whiskey to the artisan, the cooper, the barrel maker
Near forgotten skills of staves, croze, the chine

And so it came to pass on this Monday afternoon
A day from rain to a drop of water
Jameson Cooper’s Croze
In sunlight, amongst flowers
And talk
Of Whisky
And Whiskey

The Barometer

Put it in a clear plastic bag and put pressure on it
You see the needle turn.
A barometer.

An eight year old’s curiosity, another way to read the weather.
Hanging on my wall I haven’t looked at for years.
I read the barometer, the weather, on my watch.
And I don’t unless someone is coming to stay.

When you come from L.A. Thames is a tiny place full of curiosity.
The famous grandson from ‘over there’ is real. Here he is,
Patiently standing beside adults, the women
Huddled about old china, new ceramics, artists, styles
“I’ve got…”

I am not eight but eighty. I have learned that the more a piece is
Huddled about, whispered over
The less likely it is to be used.
Just treasured.

Along the road and past the chatter of reunited holiday families,
A shop of new and used clothing, guitars, whistles music scores,
And long-ago purchased books, cherished, moved from house to house.
A page is turned. A box, surplus to needs is donated.

Price, one dollar? Negotiate and for two dollars –

As Chaucer Might See It

Supermarket Shopping

Thys fellowe smyles I knowst hym welle.
Yn ower smalle toun. A search, he delves
Where canst be it, we kannot tell.
In Pak and Save among the shelves
Bye nite be murmrings, little elves
Do frolik, change thyngs on displae
And kepe us guessyng eche new day

Yon lane Sixs lirks baykinge powrdre.
And be therre Pam’s and Edmonds all in haze.
Wot was thatte? Plese speke loudre
“Goode folkes use less of this these days”
Sure to reyes, I stoope and gayze
Self checkout screne, the buzzy code
Then ploddinge homewarde wyth my lode

Lunch on the Way

Thames Junction Hotel. A historic building established in 1869, the beginning of the gold mining days. This was the days of steam. The days and nights of the gold stampers, noise, ground vibrating, and at midnight Saturday the citizens would wake. Silence. The Lord’s day. All this 20 years before the advent of electricity, but, at the bottom of the South Island.

Dec 2019, behind me, young women are meeting for an end of year work lunch. Platforms have been recently extended onto the road. A couple of fewer parking spots, but, with the advent of the electric bike…