Remembering.
The loud tick of my pine-clock slowed
as I sipped old wine,
remembering the fun of raiding hedgerows
and carrying home
bags that dripped spots of summer
from scarlet-ripe fruits
*
*
spurting long before being crushed into
juice as I gently,
like a good midwife, tried birthing with
coddle a new honey brew
and bottled in well-stirred batches
went browny-thick stew
*
*
which labelled and dated I surveyed
very proudly before
storing where in cool cellar my babies
half forgotten stood
burping loudly with turbulent froth
urging maturity.
*
*
Now desperation blurs my horizon
and trying the flavour when
fermented chatter had grown silent
I heard whisper its magic,
reviving past honeymoon bliss
in wine\'s hazy allure
*
*
as berried hands linked memory\'s
laughter while dipping
together we mixed excitement in
slurry\'s tomorrows and
bottles slept until time woke
war-widowed gloom
*
*
now tasting first grateful glass
of clear nectar I toasted,
in unhurried nostalgia its action
while listening to bursts
of alchemic liquidy-redness
still singing our tune.