ramblings and things

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Picking Grapes


The Mosel river meanders
On its deeply cut line
Flowing through its valley
On to join the mightier Rhine.
He is fast and he is dangerous,
At times treacherous and deep,
Yet he seems to flow sedately 
As though he were asleep.


Vines march down the hillsides
Almost down to his banks
Standing at attention in long
Lusciously  green straight ranks,
And we picked the  grapes
From that long sloping hill
Vertigo and tiredness
Overcome by power of will

 
Sweet juicy Rieslings but
No time or energy to waste
No time just to suck one 
And enjoy that sugary taste.
Up and down up and down
Reach, pull, pick Bunches of green
Trying to keep a rhythm
A human picking machine.


And the feeling of relief
When the picking came to an end
And that grassy bank to rest on
A softly cushioned green friend.
It  eased the aching muscles
At the end of a hard day
While down below the Mosel
Swept serenely on his  way.


On a totally different scale
To that of a human life span
unaware of the existence of
such a poor thing as a man
Between  those  castled hillsides
On his waving deeply  cut line
Until  reaching the town of Koblenz
He becomes part of the mightier Rhine.
I watched its flow from the castle
Watched The majesty of it all
From behind the thick stones
Of its hundred years old wall
In my hand a glass of wine,
Sweetly subtle  and clear,
Wine that had been made from
The pickings of our last year.


 


 


 


 


 



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Picking Grapes