Roses And Wine In The Golden Weather Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

The brown cut grass on the estate lies rough
Beneath the bent and dusty olive trees
And welcome swallows lee-ho, pitch and luff
The fading light to hunt the sun-crushed leas.

So are the vintners poets to our tongues
With intense fruits from spicy forest floors
Sweet-scented pallettes ringed with Côte-d'Or tones
And berry truffle shades when sipping soars?

And are the artists poets to our eyes
Deep-delving Provencal perfection
Where iceberg roses brushstroke eves
And life must still to light's refraction?

So must words such revelations trust
That evening settles doubts with kindly dusk.



[High Summer 2015 at the Brodie Estate, Martinborough]