Five centuries late,
the Dutch make sense of malt wine.
Genever? Whisky!
Five centuries late,
the Dutch make sense of malt wine.
Genever? Whisky!
On the patio,
Ginger makes her cameo,
sudden rancio.
Climb every mountain!
How high will you go with me,
my heather honey?
Windswept lonely strand,
peppered with rocks and seaweed.
I ramble the shore.
Watching the hurling
from the end of the lounge bar,
like his oul man did.
Smoother than butter
spread over granary,
washed down with strong tea.
Postcard from the past,
sepia-toned history.
Still, I add cola.
The city gives way
to a dear green place. Cherries
distance the traffic.
How to survive the
white nights in a pine forest?
Raspberry custard.
In a citrus grove,
we picnic beside charred grass,
ghost of a bonfire.