In a Monk’s Vineyard

A Sunday poem, just before I go to a Canadian Thanksgiving feast!

Black holes lay gaping

where his eyes used to be.

A hooded cloak billows

– circles

– envelopes

to embrace red velvet pillows.

Candles burn darkly,

licorice wax flows –

meets with the fire

and spills into grooves

that lay still – lifeless – musty

engraved in ancient wood floors.


Red berry lips

open wide to devour

blood strawberries dripping with cream

– tantalising

– blissful

slipping to oblivion like a never ending stream.

A horse gallops wildly,

wind hums through the trees,

a sparrow perches silently

on bent twisted vines

bearing succulent fruit – burgundy – white

falling, still to the ground.


Hands pressed together

to open the mind,

brown burlap sacks tied close with silk rope

– silence

– gratitude

a face filled with hope.

Barrels lay stacked,

quiet tombs full of cork

green glass line the walls,

the liquid enclosed – warm – buoyant

evil and ecstasy

rolled into one.


solitude – evil – gratitude- ecstasy


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