A Lingering Smouldering Poem by Richard Blanch

To the lasting pleasure of a good cigar




There is a hint still, still a hint, stillness scented
With the smoky aftermath of what was, pleasure
Left behind, an essence, a silky presence
A swelling memory, a spirit tranquilly indwelling
That fills, quietly, the empty room, that makes all well.
This is what is meant, this lifts gloom, this is the tent
In the desert which calms the mind and soothes the sense
That comes out of the lonely night to find that dryness
Is comfortingly quenched by fragrance, by remembrance.