Wine Cart

Once upon a time
I stood upon an ancient city’s wall
by a people made who saw wooded hills
and thought no farther than the next town
before a mystery overcame them.

They clutched that command of act they had
and counted all relief in the blessing.
Cathedral spire needled heaven
like a compass when I was a child.

Now upon this time
I live the modern man
lulled beneath the pleasant belief
I can see so much and believe so little.
The screen shows me war and famine
but I shun the body death laid out full
till sculptor affixes head and painter
hues the skin.

I remember those youthful years
when I take the bottle, pour in the glass.
Fear was in the fall of night,
purpose in the ache of labor,
smile in a word
over wooden carts moaning.

Once upon a time
I too hauled wine up from the presses — 
I can almost taste what it was like to crave.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.