19 February 2008

Ode to Wine

O glass of wine, you speak to me
Of flavours that must foreign be
To all of your consistency.
Yet, speak you will of more than vine,
And tease and taunt this tongue of mine
To stay no longer anodyne
But name the fruits from lands afar
Whose representative you are
In silent, virtual agency.

From far-flung fields and forests fair
Each tenuous taint and tincture there
Within you fixed through vintner’s care
Unveils itself – is made to hide
By other Flavours swept aside,
Who strive to rise from out the tide
And tempt me in insidious game
Their faint, deceitful guises name
Or else my palate’s skill forswear.

Too late! You’re gone, your secrets held
Secure within your liquid’s meld –
Irresolute convictions felled!
But wait! There’s hope, for I have seen
Within the depths of bottle green
Three of your kin, each one who’s keen
To pass the lip and cross the tongue
To trip around and play among
My taste buds ’til the query’s quelled.

The second temptress joins the fray
And almost gives the game away
But, keeping climax just at bay,
Subsides and swoons and ends the shame
Of cravings roused by passion’s flame
And tantalised in cruellest game.
And then, she’s gone, and so, alas,
I stare into an empty glass
And wonder if the third will play?

The third I all too eager find
To tempt the tongue and tease the mind
But keep her secrets still confined.
This joyful playmate lifts the heart,
Bids tortuous reasoning depart,
Pours scorn on ponderings of Descartes:
With her I am content to be,
With vacant mind from thinking free.
This world is better for her kind.

The fourth comes forth, her sisters’ clone.
My singing tongue begins to moan,
And thus, at last, your cover’s blown!
Not just by taste do you deceive –
This corpse of balance you relieve;
And so I bid you gone – please leave!
For, no, you have not hurned my tead –
You’ve spade the moon to rim instead.
Now, where’s the Great White Telephone?

Copyright © 2007 Desmond Hilary

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