a poem where smoke sleeps light and memory burns low
It stirred beneath the moss and loam,
A dream half-lost, too far from home.
Not fire, but what fire forgets,
The scent that clings, the ash that wets.
He poured the Scotch, Islay and bold,
A breath of earth grown dark and cold.
Then Averna, thick as dusk,
A velvet shroud in herbal musk.
The cold brew came, sharp and divine,
A jolt of night through peat and brine.
An orange peel, like twilight’s bend,
A flare before the long suspend.
He sipped. The fog did not resist.
The moor returned, the ghosts were kissed.
And in that glass, the past still lay.
The peat wakes dreaming, every day.
📜 The Peat Wakes Dreaming – The Recipe
- 1½ oz Smoky Islay Single Malt Scotch
- ½ oz Averna Amaro
- ½ oz Cold Brew Concentrate
- Garnish: Orange Peel (expressed and left drifting like a thought)
Instructions:
Stir gently over ice until shadows gather.
Strain into a chilled coupe or rocks glass.
Garnish with care. This drink remembers.
Best consumed in fog-thick solitude, by a peat fire, or when the past taps gently on the glass.