Whiskey. Pebble. Fire.

(This poem came to me the other day. It’s not my usual style of writing, but perhaps it can just about fit under the devotions section)

Whiskey. Pebble. Fire.

I want to live in a log cabin by the seashore,

In Scotland, where it snows every winter, and is generally cold,

So I must forever be popping in and out to chop more wood, or fetch some in to have a ready supply by the hearth.

And in the evenings I will drink whiskey and watch my log fire.

I will say my prayers, and let the words of the bible sink deep into my bones.

On clear nights, I will go out onto my porch, to see the starry sky, and listen to the waves crashing on the age-old rocks, where saints, as boys, skimmed pebbles.

And perhaps, from time to time, thinking me wise, someone will come to visit me.

And if they come, I will be glad; and if I can help them, I will be glad; and when they have gone, I will be glad to be alone again, with my whiskey and my fire.

When the wind blows fair, I will lift up my head on my morning walk along the surf line, no longer bowed down against the biting cold.

On such a day, I think perhaps my heart will also skip with joy, like a pebble skimming over the waters.

Till, one day, perhaps, sitting quietly in the evening, my heart will skip strangely, and before I know it, I am gone.

Maybe, as I go, my soul, impossibly suspended in thin air, will hover to smile farewell, or perhaps just sink into the words of the bible to become the breath of my neighbour’s prayer,

Or maybe my pebble, as all must, will simply surrender its flight and, with a plop, be lost in the sea.

When they find me, a couple of days later, they will lift me up to carry me away, I hope, to where someone, walking slowly enough to pause and read my stone, can then look up and catch the scent of salt on the air.

If that should be, how things come to pass, my final hope is that, when they find me, my fire long burnt down to ash, my glass will be empty.