Drawn like a long-held breath, the lasting day
Decanted into its crystal, quaint container
Is perfectly still, a claret-colour, quiet.
I unstop the top, to firmly take the neck,
Tilt, and deliciously, languorously,
Savouring pour the trickle of liquor out.
Misted glass, so latent-rich with evening;
Blood-drained, I take the longest latest hour,
And bring to my lips for that sip, so soft, and sweet.
It has been a long day. You feel drained, down to the very last drop. The day has sat and thickened, deep-red; it has left a weight to your arms and legs, an almost-pleasant tiredness. You take the decanter in hand, and delicately pour one glass of exquisite wine. Delicious, delicate, and thoroughly deserved.
You will no doubt notice the rich consonance and alliteration. The rhythm is stretched out, half-patient, gently elongating into evening. I’m quite fond of a contemplative poem – the interchangeable synecdoches of the wine and the decanter, the day and the dusk – and at the end of a day like today, I’m rather fond of a glass of claret as well. So there we have it.
What’s more, it’s terribly short. Which is a bonus.