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