30 SEPTEMBER 1966, Page 28

For a Wine Festival

Now the late fruits are in. Now moves the leaf-starred year Down, in the sun's decline. Stoop. Have no fear.

Glance at the burdened tree: Dark is the grape's wild skin. Dance, limbs, be free.

Bring the bright clusters here And crush them into wine.

Acorns from yellow boughs Drop to the listening ground. Spirits who never tire, Dance, dance your round. Old roots, old thoughts and dry, Catch, as your footprints rouse Flames where they fly, Knowing the year has found Its own more secret fire.

Nothing supreme shall pass.

Earth to an ember gone Wears but the death it feigns And still burns on.

One note more true than time And shattered falls his glass.

Steal, steal from rhyme : Take from the glass that shone The vintage that remains.

VERNON WATKINS