A young Chianti

I’ve followed signs to Yield in Ireland

when I’m used to an Aussie Give Way.



As I put on bright lipstick, tell you stories

of Africa when we were both young,

I watch my words seduce you again.



You remember young Chianti;

full and round, ruby red, peppered

with berries. I remember

a Hotel in Kitwe - Blue Nun.



You say your taste has matured,

you now prefer an Aussie Shiraz;

sharp, punchy, still youthful

- allowed to ripen with time.



I imprint your palate with my being

so no other will satisfy - am absolutely

involved in strong pulsing waves...



You suddenly stop and fold my legs over

I lay foetal naked at fifty.

You lean further forward to whisper;

my tongue is sweet.



Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

(Photo: My image of a shop in Doolin, near the Cliffs of Moher.)