The slope is steep
where the Nebbiolo clings,
to marl and limestone,
and the weight of kings.
He is the rust of iron,
the tar, the rose,
a violence
that only the cellar knows.
Across the draw,
the Chardonnay is gold.
A scripture of light
that cannot be told.
She is the flint, the butter,
the orchard’s breath.
A vibrant living
in the face of death.
One tastes of the vigil,
one tastes of the flame.
One craves a silence
only bitterness can tame.
One is a spirit
with no steady name.
We judge them so poorly,
as if depth must be grey,
as if brightness is hollow
and incapable of ache.
The Barolo is heavy,
until the tension unties,
and the grip of the valley
dissolves into sighs—
the first light of autumn
through thinning red skin,
a perfume escaping
the structure within.
And she masks her hollows
with linen and grace,
a tension of survival
held tightly in place.
The acid’s high wire,
the cedar’s dry vice,
a mineral winter
shivering through ice.
Perhaps they are mirrors,
both refusing a chord,
fearing a reflection
that neither can afford.
But breathing brings mercy
to the secrets they keep,
as the fruit turns to velvet
and the edges fall steep.
Somewhere in the pouring,
the smoke and the pear,
the grit and surrender
are caught in the air.
When weight and the light
at last do entwine;
we realise the vintage
was never just wine.
It’s the cathedral bells
through a Piedmont fog,
where woodsmoke drags
its scent through the bog.
It’s a Spanish guitar
in a low-ceilinged room,
where windflowers abound
and summer’s in bloom.
It’s crystal and laughter
and a night come unbeat,
bare-amber shoulders
where shadows retreat.
And in the long finish,
when the glasses run dry,
the tannin still lingers
like a truth-coloured lie.
One carries the winter
deep inside the wood.
One carries the dusk
where the honey once stood.
It’s timing mistaken
for temperament’s boon;
two impossible seasons
beneath the same moon.
