The choice’s never between you who pour
and what you pour, that specific wine
how chilled the ruby red depths of colour
the fruit plucked off which pedigree vine
and in the graft of sweet on strong and sour
if the stock and scion correctly combine;
and I reckon it’s perhaps a little more
than the curve of spout and its scrolled incline.
The doors beckoned, and I didn’t bother
what’s inside - the inn is also a shrine;
you pour the glasses, I pass the hours
weaving your smile into my verse and lines.
Suppose I had knocked at some other door
at a different turn enticed by different signs,
no doubt the hands seen there would still feel yours
the roof and walls equally feel like mine
it’s no mistake, but all that’s here on offer
this tray of glasses in some random design
are these a choice, or is it all written before?
no matter; in the end both will turn out fine.