Waiting for a blackberry wine I ordered,
at a bustling purlieu placed shoreward,
Restin’ down in an old German Strandkorb facing westward;
It jus’ started to thunder; Inviting the ingress of cloudburst,
with the rains dooming the sky away by a verst,
I sure got time with my wine to drench my thirst.
“Age is just”, I said the wine, “another number for me”,
Not that the wine will get the hang of what’s been spoken,
But that what’s been professed is the wine speakin’ the truth.
With ages men grow bold and old,
here the wine gets gold and are sold.
But both men and wine have stories untold.
With the rains embattled,
making that charging cloud a saddle,
wish this whirlwind carry me westward.
I’m sodden in the rain,
Tears are fallin’ and I feel the pain,
Wishin’ you were near by me, to end this misery.
Whining to the wine for the women I let bereave,
I don’t want these showers to leave,
let the stories weave.
The wine be kept in a good cask,
The woman be kept in the polished past,
The rain vanished to the vast.
We are miles and times apart,
Was that the woman, the wine or the rain?