Advent, the Nineteenth Day: Timorous Beastie


…pusillanimes confortamini, et nolite timere…

And Burns again – whose tag I thought was Shakespeare’s,
The one about the plans of mice and men –
Corrects my mortal thoughts. His wit deducts hairs
That bless my beard – as needlepoint design
Unravels from its loom or raftered scantling
Unwinds from central beam. Dismantling
Such doom, I sip at Timorous Beastie, neat
As Robbie’s lines: “…beneath the blast Thou thought
To dwell till – Crash! The cruel coulter past” and,
Alas, a homeless thing… But solace lifts
A glass, this Advent’s nineteenth day, and gifts
Awaiting be upon us – glad and chastened
To know that God provides for men and mice
No better plan than what will best suffice.

Advent, the Eighteenth Day: Arran Batch 4 (That Boutique-y Whisky Company)


…ecce Deus noster veniet, et salvabit nos.

This red-eye retail, emporium of essence,
And holding house of heaven’s holy hooch –
That’s Arran – that’s the place of plain old nonsense
Which Robbie Burns would practice, sing and preach:
“O Whisky! Soul o’ plays and pranks!” As the poet
Declaims – so Harold Currie makes a go at
Installing Arran’s first distillery
(Not watched by moon alone) this century,
When paired and golden eagles play a prank to
Delay the work a year, their rare-aired roost,
A legal brief and stay. Thus, Holy Ghost,
Bestow – this Advent’s eighteenth day – a thank you,
We pray, on Arran’s heights, for making room
Among such rocks as God will soon call home.