THE OULD POITIN STILL

Moonlit branches cascade upon
An ould rusty roof, McNeill’s shed shining

Bubble and brew, pallid liquid
A brave, quare thing, this living mercury

Precious, fluid, stone of ages,
Filter and fuse well, I pray … we pray

Great cosmic egg, great shadowed mass
Gurgling and groaning like a stomach digesting

Some Russian luck needed as the drips are fed
Through hot and aching brass

Curls of sharp and tints of amber, thrilling the spirit
Kneading the inner dough, this poitin

Boiled by the best, drunk by the worst
Soon to bring forth brilliant, thrilling inner imagery

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