“Only fine claret and old roses”
he wandered, secateurs in hand, from bush
to bush, sunlit, having spent an hour in his cellar,
“Smell and taste better than a woman,
and only that through variety…”
and seeing in his mind’s eye Herself, he smiled:
“Pluribus in Unum: that’s the ticket.”
And a wonderful project occurred to him:
to match a known female to each chateau,
and one to each variety….
“Why, that could see you out, old Son.” One guffaw,
beaming: “And to tell Marjory…”