New Wine
I drink the modern poets down,
Absorb their words – their colours, strengths
And clarities, their tastes and styles –
As topers wine. Often I muse
Upon them as I fall asleep,
Hungover with the overplus
Of such variety; there are
So many vintages but, too,
Too little time to sample them.
My brain, bemused, cannot discern
Why some are labelled ‘Classic’ now;
Perhaps new wines should not be judged –
Even by connoisseurs – until
Some decades after laying-down,
So that their innate characters
Emerge with less ambiguity.
Often old wines with famous names
Appeal more than the newer crus;
Perhaps their labels deceive taste!.
(Perhaps – it is a selfish thought –
Of new wines I prefer to drink
My home-made fermentations, based
On secret recipes disclosed
To those whom Masters of the art
Deem able to create therefrom
Cuvées of finest quality.
But then, ‘home-mades’ always seem best –
Whatever their true attributes –
As any mother’s child will know!).
Since all our years impinge upon
Our understanding, and old age
Breeds less intolerance, I may
Come to accept and savour some
Which I now find not to my taste.
What’s certain is, that time alone
Will separate good wine from bad
Definitively: and the same
For qualities of poetry.
Meanwhile – since I cannot deny
Myself these heady sups, despite
The cracking pains they sometimes bring
To my æsthetic faculties –
I shall continue sampling both
The new and old varieties,
Making comparisons between
The attributes perceived in each.
Maybe such dedication will
Increase my pleasure as I wait,
(Anticipated charms deferred),
For time, slow time, to do its work
Upon the vintages I’ve stored –
Awaiting their maturity
Amid the cobwebbed memories
And judgemental uncertainties –
In the deep cellars of my mind.
