Ode to Bacchus
A poem
I have sung an ode to Bacchus,
Pressed the first and second fruits into warm wine,
Poured out libations to a master of Joy,
Yet not acquired a taste for this sweet and heady liquid,
So it trickles on to other tongues which know the skill of lingering on high notes.
Fermentation to unfold inside kept blossoms,
Unfruited and holding seed as potential,
Has become my ageing cultivation.
Bacchus watches me, eyes a full bouquet of spiced meaning.
Urging me to keep the best bottling to myself, he winks, and raises his goblet to my endeavours.