They lie in valleys
Between rows of reptilian back peaks.
From Stellenbosch to Franschhoek and across the Berg.
Their soil a mother's milk
To a continents finest wines.
Pinotage, Merlot
Cabernet and Chenin Blanc.
Carpets of vines
From Paarl to the rivers edge
Kissed by the breath of the cold Atlantic
These fields are lined with vintage gold.
The light alive with greens and amber,
Rust and olive, scarlet and emerald,
As the mists arise to feed the vines
Their nightly manna of precious dew.
There is a richness here beyond the commerce.
A deep veil of antiquity and history.
The Huguenots brought the first vines
As they fled the blade held at the throat,
And at the root of their god and beliefs.
And there is spirit here,
A sense of peace in this ground.
It is something reassuring, something perfect on its tongue.
Something rich with sweet yet acrid tannins,
And the ecstasy of its reds with pungent cheese
Nectar of displaced gods.
