Francis Cairns
Claughton Vine
No-one now knows how it settled first -
Wind or bird-borne pip or set or stock -
The great vine of Claughton, only it struck
By a red wall in the black deep earth,
Into intervals of bricks crumbling its tendrils.
But it found well; with a heave and a rush it spreads
Twenty-five metres, they calculate, a year.
In the late springtime days, our legends tell,
Knowing housewives cull dolmadhes, start
Prunings-wine, and in early October under
It lovers lie, green juice dripping
From bunch-stuffed mouths. You may ask whereabouts
Exactly this celebrated marvel hides.
I know just where it is but I’m not telling.
Page(s) 37
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