Happy Hour (Poetry)

First sip - a soothing warmth begins
to trickle, spread, benign -
a medicine for purging sins
and softening each line
as grim reality's po face
slips out of focus, pain erased.

All edges blur as, glass by glass,
the decor blends its hues
to mellow tones as minutes pass
and solid outlines fuse,
seen through a cosy, pink-tinged haze -
an antidote to stress-packed days.

The barflies settle and their buzz
is comforting, relaxed -
a murmuring, a woolly fuzz
of low pitched sound which wraps
and rocks the drinker, lulled, alone
and voyaging through the twilight zone.

Buoyed up by a smooth amber tide -
large shots of single malt -
nostalgia takes a random ride
around a bleary port
where memory's crude snapshot views
are filtered by forgiving booze.