Naartjie

No, I can’t write a poem to praise you.

I’ve made wines from many kinds of fruit,

from marrows and new oak leaves, for goodness’ sake;

and they carried the spirit and soul

that was theirs alone;

and for all the promise

of the coat you’re delivered in,

-so lush and royal, so gift-wrapped

(that you slip out of too easily,

like a soft, pale girl)

-you don’t deliver, do you?

Not really.

You’re tinctured spring-water

with citrus notes:

delicate, floral,

but no real body:

no tannins, no lasting food

for soul, or palate, or our own red hearts.

You can’t compete against

the blood orange,

                     ruby grapefruit,

 holy apple,

                     noble grape.

You looked sweeter with your clothes on.

Maybe your sweetest self

would appear in a liqueur?  

 -  John van Wyngaard