PURPLE

Grapes glisten with light 

every time the sun roams across

its naked purple skin. Purple grapes

just love to hang around - cleavage -

clinging to each other at a party -
clinking glasses, laughing, spending
an evening together on the vine.

We all have our glory days.

We all know that the past, the present, 

isn't going to last. The reckoning

is coming. Harvest is on the horizon.

Grapes became silent - when picked - 

when packed in crates - 

when dumped - when crushed 

and pressed - and then 

the purple juice gradually 

becomes wine  - becomes joy -

and then sometimes people 

with purple lips and purple passions 

drink too much and then comes the

harvest - the regret of the night before - 

silence. Sometimes purple stains

remain - especially those that last
from one’s past on white gowns,
white shirts and white blouses.

© Andy Costello, Reflections, 2012