A skin of leather, rough and old,
a paper crinkled thousand-fold,
a dusty room, the scent of pine,
would you believe that I mean wine?
A scent of herbs and tar and rose,
a land of fog still in your nose,
a score of ninety-nine point nine,
yet, there is so much more to wine.
A berry colour, dark and red,
a million words all left unsaid,
for they seem hard now to combine,
I might have had a little too much wine …