Categories
Poetry

Abbey Vineyard

Where I grew up, in rural Indiana, there is a very large Benedictine monastary, an archabbey, in fact. One of the things they produce on the land there is wine, which is used sacramentally, as well as being sold as part of the abbey’s self-sustaining economy.

After a rain, blood drips from the vines
Onto upturned clover tongues.

Or so it seems to the old monk
Who tends the abbey grapes.

As he walks slowly
Down the glistening rows of fruit,
He stops and stoops
To lift a fallen branch,
Cradle it in his arms,
Return it to its proper place.

The harvest is a bitter blessing.
Grapes are crushed.
They become
The wine of eternal life.

By Timothy Hankins

A theologian, pastor, and writer who seeks to teach and live the fullness of the ancient Christian faith. Anglican in a Wesleyan way (read: Methodist).