Alchemy
Flames flicker in the blackened hearth,
And spread shifting shadows, slivers of light.
Crossing the room, opens his treasure,
To sample the precious liquid of the night.
The bottle unstoppered, now pouring,
Holding carefully, the glass he grips.
Deep ruby-red, thick viscous elixir,
He brings the drink up to his lips.
Sweet liqueur, spreading warmth,
Through both body and soul,
Wonders at the chemistry involved,
To achieve this alchemic goal.
Guarding the special knowledge,
Of the place that only he knows,
Never telling of his secret source,
Where the bowing blackthorn grows.
In September’s misty mornings,
Gathering frost-crusted blackened fruit,
The sour sloes, purple, bunched and bitter,
Berries barbed by thorns down to the root.
Hands scratched and pricked, fingers aching,
Bags of fruity booty stolen one day.
Cleaned, bruised, the sticky fluid soon flows
Into the gin, sugared, shaken, stowed away.
Weeks waiting, days dawdling, the magic starts,
Transformation, slow but steady,
Watching, wondering, the bottles shaken,
Until this new tincture is finally ready.
But this alchemist has no strange equipment,
Nor is there any cloak or magic spell,
To create this precious liquid,
From such mute materials, so well.
In the darkness something happens
To base substances 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 both red and oozy,
Not to be wasted on the cocktail set,
But kept for those who are more choosy.
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment