No taste in the toast

2018 – a never to-be-forgotten year. But a sizzling one for grapes, ripening before rot. A little overcooked in the dry, sunburning South. All the same, a vintage year, with vintners licking lyrical lips. Champagnes rich and ripe, less zingy, the way we liked to drink them in the park, a deck-chaired duo. Burgundies and Beaujolais all bountiful and Ports, our winter tipple, memories of Lisbon, shot after shot.

My glass half empty
yours untouched these three long years
– one more harvest in

A haibun for a change as Carrie gives us this photo prompt to cheer on our Sunday Muse