From Bushmills’ coast the malts arise,Black Bush with warmth that stays;The ten-year bright with morning light,The sixteen deep as days.The Reserve kept for nights of cheer,Firelight falling low now;A quiet dram, the hour held still,As amber shadows glow.A pink gin softens fading light,Sloe gin warms the cool air;And port, when taken gently warm,Brings peace beyond… Continue reading