No one knows from
where thou came,
but you’ve stood
the test of time.
Admired by
millions with many a name,
but to me, you’re
just called Wine.
Eight thousand
years ago in a quervi,
and more recently
aged in oak.
Many forms you
take, including earthy,
different styles,
loved by different folk.
You start off
small, just seed in hand.
A patient man doth
grow.
A home you find
within the land.
The farmer he doth
know.
You need but sun
and rain and soil,
to make your magic
work.
But for the man ‘tis
many a toil.
And his work he
doth not shirk.
Your presence
grows around the world,
especially here in
China.
Into which soft
drinks here are hurled,
Lafite, Latour –
no finer.
Oh why your price
these days so high?
Many deem you as a
God.
Mere mortal men just
look and sigh.
These days it
seems so odd.
‘Twas just one
hundred years ago,
man drank you more
than water.
But now these days
man loves to show,
the value for
which he bought you.
The best some say’s
from Burgundy -
your precious land
doth show.
But others say,
including me,
the best is from
Bordeaux.
There is sweet
nectar from Sauternes.
From rot comes
something fabled.
But just one glass
is all I yearn,
from winemakers
there so abled.
From Spain you
herald no finer drop.
From Italy, others
think so.
From Germany,
sure, no greater crop.
And Portugal, from
the Douro.
Your oldest home,
the Middle East,
where God’s light
once he shone.
Iran and Georgia
with wine they feast,
but the best’s now
Lebanon.
You’ve found a
home now in Australia,
where many a grape
do dwell.
Shiraz, Grenache,
even Mourvedre –
those Aussies do
that one well.
And now we see you
from New Zealand,
more South you
will not find.
Sauvignon Blanc
you’ve made your own brand.
Description; cats
pee, most unkind!
In Napa, Cabernet’s
found a home.
In San Fran Pinot
thrives.
These wines atop
America’s throne –
Oregonians sure think
otherwise.
Then south to
Chile and Argentina,
where quality
outstrips price.
So fine that man
should ever have seen a
place loving of
wine and Christ.
And thus,
concludes the ode to wine,
it is but just the
start.
Of something
longer I will enshrine,
on paper and from
my heart.
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