Home Grown

Draft poem

Home Grown

Those Tuscan types were lean and mean.
Trained at altitude their broody clusters
hung below the vines with attitude.

So slick and sleek - the Jets and Sharks
of viticulture - but destined for a gory end.
For when next they feel warmth they’ll hint

of summer berries, spices, smokey
tannins - possess a gorgeous finish.
But you, my blousy dears - raised under

glazed northern light - you will not age.
No, the sweet, sanguine juice that you
ooze will be pressed and quaffed today.

(picture worked up Photoshop from one of my Tuscany photos)