The Labourer In The Vineyard

Here are the ragged towers of vines

Stepped down the slope in terraces.

Through torn spaces between spearing leaves

The lake glows with waters combed sideways,

And climbing up to reach the vine-spire vanes

The mountain crests beyond the far shore

Paint their sky of glass with rocks and snow.

Lake below, mountains above, between

Turrets of leaves, grape-triangles, the labourer stands.

His tanned trousers form a pedestal,

Coarse tree-trunk rising from the earth with bark

Peeled away at the navel to show

Shining torso of sun-burnished god

Breast of lyre, mouth coining song.

My ghostly, passing-by thoughts gather

Around his hilly shoulders, like those clouds

Around those mountain peaks their transient scrolls.

He is the classic writing all this day,

Through his mere physical being focussing

All into nakedness. His hand

With outspread fingers is a star whose rays

Concentrate timeless inspiration

Onto the god descended in a vineyard

With hand unclenched against the lake's taut sail

Flesh filled with statue, as the grape with wine.