(to seated silent eyes)

In caressing hands

The path steep
that follows the vine
Where thoughts in summer
Their sap still draw
From soil deep
Through wind and rain
Until in caressing hands
As fruits ripened
Their way they make to wine.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is also the author of Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..