Ambrosia

a poem about memeories of love triggered by a fine vintage wine

Ambrosia

It had lain dormant, so he thought,
For so many years.
But its silent sleep was a process
Of ripening and developing
Complexities beyond belief.
Aroma warmed the room
As it tasted air and released.
Smoothly poured, it clung to the glass
Like honey.
The colours of autumn lit the room.

First sip was sublime.
Eyes closed.
Softly to the lips.
Gently to the tongue.
Pressed to the palate
All taste and texture turned to
Golden velvet
And drowned his senses in
Exquisite joy.
In his mind he pictured a face.
Ambrosia.

Alan Turpie