'Horse' sits beneath me.
The air tastes of wine.
Rolling hills are aflame
in crimson red and
I know I command
the beast beneath me.
With my flask of wine
I become a king as I
trample the face of flying dust.
Rose colours cross slaty rocks
colour jewellry on every stone,
wood hyacinth, wild rose
and grape, exquisite oxalis ...
Here men toiled and
cleared the soil, planted
gazing with aching eyes
resting labour wracked bodies
revealing the glory of the grape
as fog wisps stretched out
across the hills.
Streams roll by in darkish eddies,
unwholesome banks in silvery shadows
clothed in rainbows give hope.
The infinite waste
of natural selection strikes me.
My crumbling body, a skeleton
hidden by the pallor of
decaying flesh concealing
death's head's inevitable promise.
(c) JJ
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