Temperatures are dropping, and clouds descend to bathe us in damp fog..
House of sorrow
A house enshrouds in sorrow
so sun turns away his smile
then cloud descends, full of tears
as window draws her veil
the door shuts himself tightly
and chimneys heart lays cold.
Within a soul sits weeping
from the world, is slowly waning
into a fog of obscurity.
In the vineyard next to our house, there are vines that could be one hundred years old. Producing a white wine grape, they are nicknamed ‘Noah’, after the claim that Noah carried this ancient vine in his Ark. When the disease Phylloxera practically wiped out many vineyards in France, some of this variety survived, due to its strong resistance to the disease, as well as mildew and blackrot. Also known as Fox grape, it is considered an unfavourable taste today. Instead it is used to graft. This makes our vine neighbour a rarity, and I hope that the viticulturer takes care of them, a few years more.
The woodcutter has been into the forest. His service is exchanged for half of the timber he cuts. His white wood dries for a year, but oak sits in the rain for three years to wash out the tannin, then in the dry for two years, before he sells it as firelog.