Looking pensively at the ceiling, vintage red in hand

grandad's gruff, erudite words caused the flames in the hearth to flicker:

”Amongst all art forms dear chap, poetry stands apart for its aesthetic virtues, irrespective of its semantic substance. 

It nestles proudly in its precious niche as an art form,

untouched by pedantic criticisms or debate”.

Enlightened, I got up, respectfully and fondly touched his arm and left;

believing in the undisputed truth that poetry is notoriously hard to appraise.

The sweet aroma of hand-rolled Cuban still lingers

along with his illuminating sagacity.