Monday, November 7, 2011

(Sunday's poem) Libation

You're supposed to pass it round, aren't you? My mother asked.
So the it - the last bottle of malt whiskey he ever bought, goes around and around us all, and
"Cheers Dave," is drowned out by excited "Dad, Dad, what's that?" and
"Dad, Dad I can 'ave some?" and
you know there would have been more tears when we were burying the box, if not for, "Dad, Dad, can I have a go? I want to do one, I'll be really careful!" And eleven year old hands struggle to maintain the shovel.
Yeah there'd have been a lot more tears all around.
"Thought the tree was gonna be well big?" Well give it a year or two child.

"Lush."

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