My dad; he liked a whisky.
A single malt would do.
Not too much; but sufficient.
Maybe a glass or two.
'Just ample,' he'd always say,
'to see the evening through.'
It was, he would maintain,
a nice pastime to pursue.
'Conversation freely flows
once you have had a few.'
And sometimes I'd introduce
a bottle of something new.
'It's not unappealing,' he'd opine;
as appreciation grew.
He liked a double negative;
enjoyed a double Cardhu.
A touch of water, new flavours
did magically imbue.
He was watchful of my intake.
'Do not think I don't know you!'
Right, of course, as next day
a hangover would ensue.
Finally, that knowing glance.
'Don't say I didn't warn you!'
As the drams, they added up,
so the years they did accrue.
I miss your conversation.
I miss your point of view.
I recall the pipe, of course;
the measured voice I knew.
By your whisky, a beer perhaps;
some intoxicationg brew.
Now only an empty glass;
an empty bottle too.
My dad; he liked a whisky;
and that is not untrue.
