In a limestone cauldron
Narrow eying
The sea
And the whole arc
Of the sun’s duration,
In a slip
And steep crevice,
The poor dirt
Is put to the work
Of the vine.

I wondered
How such meagre soil
Might husband
The leaf, the flower, the grape
To produce magic
Must juice
From sun-trap arid scrape.

But the grapes are handsome
Clusters on the bush
And the wine
Flows.

Later
As I took cool refreshment
In the cove below
I felt the catchment
Of the cauldron
In wellspring
And flush of freshwater cold
As seepage
Of hidden river
In sweet undercurrent
To the salt water fold

And I understood
The grapes
Plush oasis
And their plump
Story of old, gnarled vines
Tap-rooted fast
To the terroir
Of this Croatian place and time.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015