They toiled away in unison under the control of mother nature,
mothering the plants so they could be just right,
a years worth of work trailed by a fermentation or two,
to conjure a potion not too heavy or too light

Performing mystical work to construct a time machine in glass,
men and women whom indulge shall be transported back, 
to this very year amongst this very land,
and be told a story of the jewels collected in sack.

The juice and yeast exercised in a tank of steel,
like boxer and trainer for a forthcoming show,
before falling asleep to recover and rest
in a barrel from Bourgogne where we reap what we sow.

“Oh what a vintage” they cry, “a year for the kings”.
As they amputate the cork like a surgeon with a knife.
They drink and they eat and get transported back,
to the fields and the people, where wine equates life.
 

DV