Scotland

When the winds blow hard across the moors of Scotland, and the rain falls heavy on the cobblestone streets of the Orkney Islands, native sons retreat to their drawing rooms. There they sit before hot fires, fueled by local peat. It is then that peace comes to these windswept lands in the form of an aged, single malt scotch whiskey.  At times like these, children are not heard, animals go unfed, and wives wisely go about their knitting.

In Scotland

Standing on grey cliffs, against the howl of the cold wind,

The sounds of white waves crashing through the mist,

Rain slowly and softly descending,

The North Sea reached out, stretching to the end of time,

Then I smelled the smoke of peat on fire,

The warmth of a distant home called to me,

I thought of the colors of Scotland,

I thought of the taste of the warm barley.

I walked over the hills,

And then across the moors,

Till we met by the fire of the night,

Where peace spread forth,

Like the warm wool,

Spun by stout hearted people,

Spun by brave men, born of the North Sea.