Vendange Tardive

It’s time,

a premature colour shift

tells me so, the air is cooler too

and rain threatens.

I feel I owe it to the plants

to unravel their tortuous work

with a care and reverence

my father once employed,

in grateful thanks

for yet another freely given

bounteous harvest.

I disentangle taut brown tendrils

discover the last few hidden

crisply bronzed elderly pods

that evaded earlier capture.

With care a skeleton is

revealed, bamboo rods

bent like ribs submit

grudgingly but with pride.

It’s over, an exhumation

in truth a burial in reverse,

fresh dug earth

hidden by summer’s

verdant veil, now lies

barren exhausted

awaiting renewal.

Published by grahamrsherwood