Tom Aitken
Three Viennese Sonnets
1 Grinzing
Parties at evening stroll this curving hill
where gravelled yards are noisy and benign;
bottoms crush benches; the new season’s wine
slops from tankards generously full.
Others - perhaps Beethoven, deaf, apart -
must have ogled bosoms thrust like these
(when tight-laced wenches bend to unload trays)
for subsequent mutation into art.
Drink is a tease. With each successive swallow,
place and history, appetite and thought
merge in a singing yellow swill of light.
If wine is truth, the glass once drained is hollow:
those lucid words are sensed but can’t be caught.
The shaping eye mistakes bright blur for sight.
Page(s) 6
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