Out at the inn

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.