The Vines Poem By William Greenway
Vines Cottage, Wales, 1996,
This year we’ve lived in stone,
in what our Welsh friend calls,
a cowshed, watched the vine
or vines that climb along the walls
and hang above the doors
go gold, with purple grapes,
then bare, then green.
Mornings brought the sheen
of spider webs, dew on the lovespoon
scrollery of trellised roses,
the carpet stitched with silver
traceries of snails,
in frost the filigree of garden hose
about to coil, suspended by its tail.
We thought we knew
exactly where we were, until
we woke, the breadcrumbs gone,
you blaming me, me blaming you,
in a forest dark where ways
we thought we had by heart
diverged or crossed, a maze,
until we nearly came apart.
As good as lost, almost alone,
our single sorrows met and turned
into a footpath doubling back to home,
this cottage, where we’ve learned
how vines that tangle also twine—
have to, to crush and come to wine.
Happy Wednesday Wishes & messages…