It’s late afternoon
And the vintner gives his prognosis
For my noble disease.
The vines need pruning;
I need to cut back to stimulate new growth,
He says.
There doesn’t feel anything noble about it.
It feels like weakness,
No longer able to endure
The snap of a winter soil,
Or trying once again to push my roots down deep.
It’s where the best flavour comes from;
The noble struggle, he says.
I wonder what growth is left.
The harvest has more character now,
Less acidity, he says
Less vigour, I think.
Maybe I should pull the whole crop out
And just retire,
Drink someone else’s craft till I’m gone.
But I know I can’t,
It’s the only joy I have left.