Did you read of the farmer near Beziers

whose entire grape crop -

all thirty-five tons -

was stolen overnight by a gang

with a mechanical harvester?

Did you remember how we bent

 

and ached for the grapes, swollen

and pendulous, bruised

like love-bitten breasts,

sweating and swaying before us?

How at night we poured

ourselves into each other

 

to the rhythm of crickets;

the Languedoc women

wore dark bandannas and clicked

their tongues in mock disapproval

when they learnt we were unwed.

"C'est la mode!" they supposed

and blessed our unborn children

 

asleep in the abandoned college.

The mayor of the village

was called Bruno, a Communist

who begrudged us free electric.

I quoted Lenin's famous maxim

and he drove us to Beziers

 

the following Saturday:

me in my yellow kerchief,

polka-dot blouse and fedora hat;

you in your thin peasant dress.

We bet who'd get the best proposals,

finally opting for a sauna

with the handsome Catalans.

 

Oh, Jesus, you would whisper

in your soft Geordie accent

as I bit into vendange tardive.

You clawed and kissed the icon

at your neck before we burst

into Rabelaisian giggles.

 

Do you mourn - just a little -

that the fruit's no more felt, even 

by those with dishonest intentions?