I gulped my wine

and only knew

that it was aged in oak.

It’s roughness bit my throat,

filling my head with it’s fumes.

It dulled my mind.

It eased the pain

of thoughts that haunted me

and so I slept.

 

I sipped my wine.

I rolled it round my tongue.

And in the savoring I saw

Grapes dusted in delicate bloom,

swollen; ready for harvest.

Presses groaned.

Juice ran from a spigot.

The bouquet filled my mind

with thoughts of love and sharing.

 

 

David Garlick, Victoria, 1990