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

26 thoughts on “No taste in the toast

  1. Enjoyed this. The different wines and the foreign (to me at least) locale make it feel like some old Edith Piaf song that makes you sigh whether you’ve been to Paris or not.

  2. I keep returning to this… lovely haibun. And such sadness in the ending haiku – beautiful…

  3. Exquisite poetry! I’ve enjoyed more than a few sips of the wines you highlighted ~ the haiku is incredibly sad.

  4. Good year for the wines, not so good for the relationship, I gather. Touching haiku.

  5. Laura, it is so nice to read you again! Happy to find you at the Muse. Sad with the untouched glass……..hopefully not a loss, just someone abstaining. I hope you are well.

    1. hello Sherry – I’m not a frequent Muser on Sunday though I enjoy the prompt when weekends give me time. Thank you, I am well, have had major life changes and the loss is three years old – I dedicate it here

  6. The best kind of poem, where everything is implied, not stated, with shades and reflections of happenings, places, times, people…I find haibun very difficult to write well, and I’ve read a lot of very slipshod ones. This is not one of them. I especially like “..vintners licking lyrical lips…” and the Port/Lisbon drunk shot by shot, as well as the exquisite finishing tercet.

  7. A powerful haibun, both rich in detail and sad in remembrance. Beautifully written.

  8. Reading this after a Remembrance Day service this morning. A naval bugler playing the Last Post for us – as I remembered the grandfather I never met.

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