Wilted lilacs smell like sour wine, I noticed one day.
Wine leads men to tell stories, in the height of their misery or merriment.
In a bottle of wine is an Arthurian legend; a wizard trapped in a tree.
Wine flowed in rivers when the earth was young. Stained the crystals in a cave to purple, Amythest.
In a glass, swirled and lifted to dry lips.
The red sea, on which floats a pirate ship, sale flapping. The waves that conceal the flip of a mermaid's tail.
It is the black script on old parchment, words that run wild like lupine letters, the ink of sonnets.
Wine is the scandal that becomes merely a daring spectacle.
It is the cruelest month, lilacs in the dead land. That wilt and smell like sour wine.
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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