These days long gone.
Risen up in me like breath come to fruition;
the grapes we ate of that time
are long since made into sweet, aged wine,
the colour of blood and a memory of love
so full, so ripe, a thousand nuances
balanced under one meaning;
to love and be loved,
seeming greatest glory of all our days
passed under the sun.
And the vineyard of my mind
shines golden in the afternoon light time after time
until harvest comes to gather me into autumn arms
and carry my memory down to rest
in the cool cellar, dark with bottled years.