Leaving

It’s possible that after all this
you’ll look up at the dusty oaks
studded at their bases 
with the faeces, of wild boar

and say with centuries of weariness
“you may as well go,”
because that’s what those
who come here do,

and even in the suddenly fast
footsteps of our child,
we can hear the echoes of the
departed, the portmanteaus packed.

Our vines have all been stripped,
old barriques test their cooper,
a new vintage seeps at the staves
and hired engines turn over.