Strawberry Wine

The river never slowed, for serendipity or love. They sat, a mile apart on muddy ground, alive and hoping for a sign from Him, above that would bring close the portrait of plain art, inside the hive where drones make wine to measure out a dose well earned and truly owed. She cried and let her tears fall into raging waters; perhaps they died, there was a hope of God-Almighty human fears but she just sat there, waiting only for the tide. The river gave its powers to the coming drought, she stood and grabbed a sturdy stick of Norfolk pine, they met at last and took a mighty walkabout, and drank the contents of the wild strawberry wine. He took her home then, on his back, onto his cot. She smelled like licorice and spices from abroad. It would not matter if the weather would turn hot he knew that life itself was absolutely flawed. A tired moon said his good-byes that very day, there was some light still to illuminate the pair. And there they stood inside the river's awesome clay, he had his hands around her head. He loved her hair.