Cigar

The Nicely‑Smoked Letter

In a quiet corner of a London teahouse,
the steam curls like a moody fog of Thames‑bank mist.
A gentleman in tweed, a faint smile that lingers—
his cigar is the note that hums within the brass‑band sighs.

Its wrapper, a deep‑greening colour that glows
like the hedged gardens of my neighbour’s garden,
is sliced with a single, clever seed‑silhouette,
a sliver of amber that watches the tea‑pot turning.

The flame—softly, o’er the petal of a long‑dusted torch—
dances, releasing a plume of clouds that perfunctory‑ly
drift toward the dim glow of the over‑stretched mantle.
There’s a quiet ceremony to the act, a subtle nod to old style,

And the first puff, with a hiss like a smoker’s confidante,
brings out the deep‑rooted flavour of tobacco, a tobacco that tells a story:
a forest of green in the Highlands, a shade of crushed‑red clay,
all wrapped in a mouthful as warm as the crack of evening bonfires.

The world slows; the clink of silver cups
and the gentle murmur of people like music set the background.
He closes his eyes, takes a drag, and his thoughts unfurl,
whirring across the lanes of memory like tiny birches in an English downland.

The smoke, a silver thread, weaves itself into the room; the scent
marks a silent space on the tongue, a faint stubble on the heart.

With a final, contemplative exhale, the cigar hums a single note—
like a resident humour at a wandering train, bright with age and
————

With a puff, he pours a glass of bourbon, his cigar in his hand,
his empty arm‑hole holds a space for laughter, for the bright bursts of hope that
fill a room, a heart, a mind.

The cigar in this sight, a blurred memory,
remains “smoky-smoke, original in a way that London‑coloured steam never has.”