A glass of wine might slake the thirst
But water, sure to rest the soul
Runs freer, less in our control,
The next draught swifter than the first.
Yet still we have this drink to share
Through time, across a world made small,
I drink with poets, saints and all
Distracted, dreaming, trying to care.
Blood. It does not mix with oil.
Another source of cleanliness
To sluice the cuts that nonetheless
Are stinging, tinctured with the soil
Of all the everyday, and night,
The bringer of our rest or pains,
Should heal us as we sleep, but veins
Of running sorrow bleed us white.
So washing off all worry’s marks –
Cold splash of spring-fed water, or
A brassy jug of wine to pour
So rainbows shine in ringing arcs.