It usually happens when I go north
After flying over a blanket of milky clouds
Through blinding rays of a closer Sun
Following its course from dawn
Far too early only a coffee before I embark
As it steals the scene from the moon.
It usually happens when I go north
After diving through perturbations
Buckled up down a thick atmosphere
Trying to heed the incomprehensible voice
Of a pilot setting course, to land under
Grey skies filled with water eager to fall
Yet humorously awaiting my first step
Over solid ground.
It usually happens when I go north
After quickly making my way through gates
No baggage to claim only a pre-rolled ciggy
Expecting to be lit is forgotten at the sight
Of a familiar pub, my feet with a life of their own
Uncaring of my reluctance drive me to its door.
I know. It is ten o’clock in the morning but
It is always five o’clock somewhere Alan used to say
Each time my excuse as a gentle bartender looks
At my face smiling discerning my intentions.
The airport buzz resonates within me
Touching my chords a bottle of whiskey
Finds me, selling promises of relief and warmth,
A glass a sip and I am back in wonderland
Indulging in listening to that oh so seducing
Scottish accent rolling ‘R’s that old time Viking friend
A memory as gold slithers down my throat
Sooths me with an after taste of oak,
I close my eyes and I am ready
For my two hours’ drive to Oban.
[Featured photo: Oban Distillery, Oban, Scotland]