When I think of food and drink,
it's no surprise
the question does arise,
with booze some choose to let it breathe
and defer their bottle of wine,
I prefer to savour the flavour
and give mouth to mouth to mine.
(Que Syrah, Syrah!)
Some say, “The glass is half full,”
with accent on the positive,
some see the glass half empty,
and focus on the negative.
Two sides to every story,
supposedly that implies,
as for me I see
something else entirely.
And as for size I will apprise,
but, before I do, I beg of you,
allow me one more swig,
“Sláinte, salud, prost, cin cin,”
the glass is too damn big!
This pomegranate heart
dreams to travel upon
a periwinkle path which
leads to the province,
where her royal majestic
persona resembles
papillon emperors,
floating under
mauveine skies,
adored by radiant rays from
the plummeting plum sun.
Serene clouds drift under
her lepidolite lilac gaze,
holding morning glory
amethyst raindrops,
ready to soothe her
fervid velvet petals.
A plethora of heather shelters
a rare rose dressed in violet,
flourishing under an
enigmatic Jacaranda tree,
surrounded by lush lilies,
infatuating irises alongside
opulent orchids,
blossoms infused with the
allure of musky ambience.
Tranquil twilight paints the
horizons in lavender hues,
stars appear like raisins
under magenta moonlight.
Her desires flow like rivers
of sangria and Syrah waterfalls,
bursting vibrantly through
mulberry mountains over
blueberry hills.
I have no desire
to reside in a place where
burgundy is too red
and indigo is too blue -
only in her unique aura
of heavenly purple shades.
Steep slate slopes glow in autumn gold
Below jagged white aretes.
Strong young men hunt among the crags
Pursuing choice chamois and deer.
Valley maids harvest purple grapes.
Laughing children mash-dance in vats.
Women stir yeast to set the brew
And lid and cork some oaken casks.
Auld men rest warm on terrace slates
Of a sunlit vine-wrapped arbor,
Slowly sipping first blush vintage,
Telling tales of mighty hunts.
Bright eyes eager for fontina
Laughter and motsetta slices,
Raising glasses filled with Syrah
To toss their years a grand hurrah.
Their hearts are on the mountain highs,
But sunset colors paint their eyes.
I wined and dined you but you wined at me,
you wound so much, it corked.
then when we sniffed the cork of love:
you popped my cork,
my; what a corker!
fruit you said: and rang the glass to chill report
Oh!.. never was there ruby depth like this before.
thus another trip to the cellar I thought/lost in
wine’s bumptious nose
Cheese? …only when selling ..never when buying
I’m sold on you Delilah!
steady boy/hold the glass: Shiraz is calling.
hold your trousers and their fighting dog at bay,
save the passion/ Syrah has its sweet way!
we’ll let the sun pour forth. Bachus show the way!
Written for contest 14/8/15