Friday, 10 July 2020


‘They picked the golden flowers. The flowers that flooded the world, dripped off lawns onto brick streets, tapped softly at crustal cellar windows and agitated themselves so that on all sides lay the dazzle and glitter of molten sun.

“Every year,” said Grandfather, “they run amuck; I let them. Pride of lions in the yard. Stare, and they burn a hole in your retina. A common flower, a weed that no one sees, yes. But for us a noble things, the dandelion.’

So, plucked carefully, in sacks, the dandelions were carried below. The cellar dark glowed with their arrival. The wine press stood open, cold. A rush of flowers warmed it. The press, replaced, it’s screw rotated, twirled by Grandfather, squeezed gently on the crop.

“There … so …”

The golden tide, the essence of this fine fair month ran, then gushed from the spout below, to be crocked, skimmed of ferment, and bottled in clean ketchup shakers, then ranked in sparkling rows in cellar gloom.

Dandelion wine.

The words were summer on the tongue. The wine was summer caught and stoppered…’


1 comment:

René Lauritsen said...

Such lovely prose, and I had completely forgotten it! Will seek it out again tonight. Also, the idea of dandelion wine always makes me want to re-read Gormenghast, so thanks for sorting out my summer reading this year!