The Story Truffaut Didn't Tell

It was a St. Emilion Grand Cru Classe,

"blackberry, plum, hints of vanilla and earth"

Lovingly carried from the south of France,

Wrapped in a blanket like an adopted child,

Or how she would gather the damp sheet

Against the sheen of her breasts after we

Had made love, and I would surprise her

With the wine and one glass, saying to her

Now she would know how the taste of her

Was to me. 

                       Each year there is a little less

Wine, a little more sediment settling like sand

In still water, like desire into its bitterness,

Gathering deeper into its dust in the corner

Of the shelf, her leaving letter, both unopened.

 





Poetry by countryfog
Read 589 times
Written on 2013-01-29 at 17:21

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
This is a very good poem, Fog, beautifully written and well finished.
2013-02-03



I'm applauding this, my friend. I read it without seeing who the author is and realised I was reading from a pen that has been through life & through the writing & creative journey, an accomplished poetic soul.
When the fog lifted a smile drew on my lips straight into my eyes. It is you! Thank you so much for sharing!
2013-01-29



I don't know the Truffaut connection, but the poem itself is powerful, really powerful. Maybe a touch of confession does that.
2013-01-29