Hot water and wine bottles - here are the existential
possibilities: decanting a fine Chianti into the warm
rubber and placing at your feet, screw-cap loose so
you’ll slosh yourself to sleep; filling the quaffed and
emptied glass with boiling water for its explosion of
heat, the burn a permanent scar of your inebriation.
Or turning water to wine, imagine it having happened
without understanding the process, or the wine back
to water if rejecting the reassuring idea of miracles.
Perhaps there was a time when both would have a cork
and differences less distinct, though now we are
clutching at straws and don’t know from which to drink.
Snow is falling with the threat of its whiteness and strife:
here’s comfort in this bottle of plonk and a Dutch wife.
Superb stuff Some Awe-I think this is probably in my "top five" of your poems to date.
ReplyDeleteIt was great fun to write. Thanks.
ReplyDelete