James Williams

Burgundy

Burgundy was lost in 1477 like a book clapped shut,
musting of French wine cellars. It yawns dormant
under Pinot Noir and Chateau de Joux.

Leisure lived languid in Burgundy, like the number
seven Pool ball, or ruddy red-brown
school caps that cup dust in cupboards.

Approval stamps on Nazi passports were Burgundy.
They haunt like leaves, ripely pungent in rotting,
or published diaries that slink out of print.