Alchemy

Alchemy                                                    

Flames flicker in the soot-blackened hearth,

Spreading shifting shadows, faint slivers of light,

As he finds his stash, opens up his treasure,

And samples the precious liquid bright.

The bottle unstoppered, now pouring,

Holding carefully, the glass he gently grips.

Deep ruby-red, thick viscous elixir,

He brings the dark drink up to his lips.

Sweet liqueur, spreading ease and warmth,

Through both body and the soul,

He wonders at the chemistry involved,

To achieve this alchemic goal.

Never telling of his secret source,

Where the bowing blackthorn grows,

Guarding the special knowledge,

In the place that he alone knows,

Where, on a dark and misty morning,

Gathering frost-crusted blackened fruit,

Sour sloes, purple, bunched and bitter,

Berries barbed by thorns down to the root.

Hands scratched and pricked, fingers aching,

Bags of fruit booty stolen one day.

Cleaned, bruised, the sticky fluid easy flows

Into gin, then sugared, shaken, stowed away.

Weeks waiting, days dawdling, the magic starts,

A transformation, slow but steady,

Watching, wondering, the bottles shaken daily,

Until the new tincture is finally ready.

But this alchemist has no strange equipment,

Nor is there any wand or magic spell,

To create this luscious liquid,

From such base materials, so well.

In the darkness something strange occurs

Between ingredients once so rough.

Sourness transports to gentle sweetness,

And the passage of time proves enough.

Then, captured within each bottle,

A winter drink that’s red, and thick and oozy,

Not to be wasted on the cocktail set,

But kept for those who are more choosy.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016