A lump in my throat
A feeling of constriction
Unavailing cold sweat
Unquiet mind not impeding
A watering mouth as I stare
At the glass door bar fridge.
Ceres the name
Of the goddess of harvest,
Ceres the label
Of the tantalising libation,
Golden liquid of suspicion
From crops of barley
Always had an inkling,
That something special
Was cached within.
An ingredient slightly narcotic
Other than alcohol perhaps
A leaf a spice an insect
Pollinating hops,
With powdery substance
Bewitchingly addictive.
Whilst I quarrel with reason
I ineluctably surrender
To indulge before even
Resting my case, a cold
Drachm fogs my thoughts
Ignites my pleasure, quenching
An aestival teasing thirst,
In torpedoing defiance
Of my good intentions.
[Featuring artwork: Ceres Graphic Novel, by Ceres Beer, Denmark]