Thursday, July 21, 2005


There is a bottle of Syrah,
breathing out its deep-red dreams
in the dark of the spare bedroom.
We should use it or it will spoil;

the wine, that is, though you are welcome
to the room as well. You know
that, right? Just chase the cats off the bed.
I did not seek you as a lover

nor see you as a lover. Oh, maybe
in my own secret deep-red dreams
I have breathed you out, allowing
the bouquet to linger, fragile

as tomorrow morning's goodbyes.

Stephen Brooke ©2005

1 comment:

Steve B said...

It is highly probable that this will grow into a longer poem...but not necessarily right now.