Long dream of summer in short skirt of glass.
The glass as prism: multiplying all
colours that meet it, sunshine, a right eyeful,
rendering all beyond it meaningless
at least for now, for this moment, more or less.
The eye is blind to what the mouth will feel:
the space where light meets water in the pool,
the driest water you will ever kiss.
Now turn to the vermouth. Just enough
to vault the drink into another region:
wave towards Italy, home of Petrarch. Give
a minute or so for things to settle down.
Stir (not shake) until distinction’s gone.
Try not to mistake this for a new religion.
This poem © Oliver Tearle 2022