Advent, the Twenty-First Day: Mortlach Rare Old


Et pax Dei, quae exsuperat omnem sensum…

The bottle-works and butcher shops of Elgin
Are far from battle’s business: Bloodshed robs
Each father’s son his ghost as hungry cannon
And starving bullet hunt the fare that Hobbes
Had placed upon this strange and modern menu.
Like tripe and haggis, Scotsman’s offal venue,
The meat of war, MacBeth and Duncan know,
Soon festers maggots. Fostered graces grow,
Though, fixing faulted flesh and blood, and signal
A different theme: that sword would cross with scythe
This Advent day, the twenty-first, and faith,
Its harvest steep as Mortlach’s (meaning “big hill”) –
Would render blood a second’s passing peace
To shine like Eve renewed in Adam’s face.