My Poems, Satires & Other Lyrical Nonsense - 3. Whisky With Rain

Trails of translucent droplets webbed the panel of glass. In excess of the background, grey pillows of fumes gloated domineering the skyline from east to west. Elizbeth Martin sat by the window of her lavish country house in her spacious sunroom. Except in her mind, what was the point of owning a sunroom when the frickin' sun doesn’t shine in this part of the world? Ireland. When it did, it came a like a miracle or the joyous news of a newborn child. How she craved the glow tenderly caressing her face, from where Elizabeth would gracefully tilt her head back, indulging in the warm radiance. Raising an early morning whisky, she bowed it to the window before lifting it to her pale blue lips and contently emptying the contents of the glass in a single gulp.

Plopping the glass on the windowsill, the woman rose gently, making her way from the gloomy depression outside the window, and escorted herself to the bookshelf the far end of the room. Rummaging, plighting the arrangement of neatly coordinated aligned books, Elizabeth pre-selected her book, sauntered in a feminine manner before placing the book on a pedestal beside her chair. Strolling to the liquor cabinet, she poured herself another glass of straight whisky, before finishing her adventure back at the chair.

Carefully hoisting, separating her dress, which had been tailored with perfection by a tailor in London when she was visiting during the summer of 1911. She awaited her husband who was away on a business trip. The young lady relaxed, plucked up the book she wanted to read. And with her escape in one hand and a drink to wet the tongue in the other, she concluded it could only be a matter of time before the rain ceased.

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