Bacchus
The Andalusian grapes are ripe this time
of season. Bacchus pipes his sweet tune o'er
the vinyards while soft breeze doth rustle more
in trees where mission tolls its clanging chime,
and natives wind their way up valley's climb
to slopes where hoary twisted vines now bore
large clusters; sunny place where rain won't pour
and lessen growing grapes from being prime.
Church fathers need to reach the given goal
of filling many barrels high with wine,
supporting mission's reign all feel as fine,
redeeming each lost pagan's darkened soul.
The Andalusian grapes are ripe this day,
and Bacchus pipes tune hoping many stray.
Copyright © Alfred Berggren | Year Posted 2017
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