Wednesday, January 28, 2009


The focaccia is just out of the oven
and I've a bottle of Bardolino uncorked
and whispering its secrets into the spare room's
darkened air. There is basil and thyme

in the crust, the richness of olives ripened
by the Mediterranean sun. No rosemary,
though; I know you don't like the rosemary.
Come, sit here by the oven and I'll cut

the bread while you pour wine. There is truth
in wine, remember, so fill my glass and I'll
say things to regret later. But that
will be too late, won't it? No matter;

I'd regret not saying them as well.

Stephen Brooke ©2009

I did bake focaccia this morning, which gave me a push toward jotting down this slender poem. Haven't had any wine yet today, however!

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