ODE TO RED WINE

The mountains
were closing in
and the roads
were petering out,
twisting amongst
the vineyards
the story
an old man tells
by an open fire,
just one or two logs,
and the television
still blaring away
like a dog barking.

The mountains
were closing in
until
in the last village,
windswept
and earthy,
camouflaged,
the co-operativo
lounged
with an open door.

Inside,
the smell of wine
like the smell
of incense
in a warmed church
after Mass or Lauds
on a cold morning.

There were two women
in white coats,
laboratory technicians
or astronauts,
their white coats
splashed with wine
like they were
technicians
or astronauts
in a sketch
about clumsy butchers.
They fetched a man
in blue overalls
who smiled
the smile of a man
who didn’Äôt smile much.
He double-took
our request
but fetched us a case
which we stashed
in the boot
as one of the women
sat on the steps
and lit a cigarette.

The mountains
were closing in.
Rioja Alavesa,
Cosecha ’Äô05,
two euros a bottle,
fruit of the vine,
work of human hands.

Philip Rush

ODE TO ASPARAGUS

Not so much spears
as crossbow bolts
as if Cupid’Äôs
gone hardcore.

And not so much
crossbow bolts
as a parcel
of fireworks,

rockets,
miniature missiles,
wrapped
in blue touch paper

and handled
gingerly
with bubble-wrap fingers,
reverently.

So what you do
in Madrid is this:
you get up early
and catch the C-4

out of Atocha -
where the bombs were -
to Aranjuez,
where you walk

in the postcard heat
under avenues of plane trees,
whose bark is flaking,
in and out of the bullying sun.

Till back by the river,
the sluggish malachite river,
which glistens
like a snail’Äôs trail,

you're in The Green Frog,
a restaurant for all the world
a beached Mississippi
steamboat with a tree,

a living tree,
growing
right through it -
heavy white napkins -

where they frizz
their asparagus
on a grill-plate
hot as sunburn

so you get little singes,
little brown patches,
which exacerbate
the savoury even more.

And olive oil,
a smidgeon.
And flakes of salt.
And a straw-yellow Rioja.

Delicious.
Strawberries and cream
for afters.
Yum yum.

And not so much
small, hot and cup
as brittle
coffee.

Philip Rush