Toddy

In the hush of a winter evening,
a toddy steams beside the hearth,
its amber glow a quiet mirth,
warming fingers, chasing dread.

A splash of whisky, smooth and bold,
a spoon of honey, thick as gold,
a twist of lemon, bright and sharp,
cloves that whisper, cinnamon’s harp.

Steam curls like soft, contented sighs,
each sip a balm for weary eyes,
the mug held close, a modest friend,
where comfort finds its gentle end.

So raise the cup, let cares depart,
in British nights, a toddy’s heart—
simple, sincere, and warmly true,
the oldest cure for skies of grey.