Sweet Old Vintage

Floorboards creaking in an old porch

sound like an omen to these ears

when coupled with the rippling rush of children

laughing as they run towards home,

their feet treading the wind,

pursued by leaves.

I say let the old pines groan,

to hell with wooden prophecies!

They'll support our weight until the spring,

just as the grasping, naked branches of the oaks hold up the sky

when the year grows heavy as a thick warm blanket,

cold as nights without you.

We'll cap our heads with wool, I'll stop your mouth with mine;

we'll bottle up this passing summer like it's wine

so not a single drop escapes us.

Then, love, when the thawing thunderstorms

and bright stars roll back round to us,

we'll wave at them and shout for joy

with hands full of the sweet old vintage,

the only leaves still bright upon the branches!