Mighbrow: That Night the Wine Was the Colour of Blood

When we first moved in to the house in Corsica it needed some work; I don't really do that kind of 'work' but we knew a man that did; our great mate Gregg Etches. He and his girlfriend (now wife) Suzi came out to the village the Xmas following our November acquisition.
There was much to do; a new bathroom to fit, wallpaper to strip, walls to plaster and paint. After being asked to paint a radiator my handiwork was judged and I was nominated chef for the duration...
We had the inevitable 'weather' but were also blessed with some fine days and spectacular sunsets that set up some great nights in; we were knackered but giddy with the joy of a new adventure; also giddy at the rediscovery of our friendship.
On Xmas eve there was to be a festival in the village; basically a fire by St Augustin's church and a roasting of the local blood sausage, 'figatelle' served with chestnut polenta, all washed down with the local wine served in plastic cups from boxes.
Before we ventured out we opened a bottle or two in the house; the start to a magical evening. Smugly snug; there was one memorable moment when Gregg started dancing with a chair; a moment of grace (from a clumsy man) that stopped us all in our tracks; Gregg is no dancer, but he was lost in that moment, unselfconscious and utterly happy. It was one of those 'spots of time' that you don't often recognise until after the event, notable because we all clocked it as it happened; the song stopped, the chair span its last pirouette and the spell was broken; Gregg's expression was priceless as he looked up in surprise, awoken from that blissful reverie...
We were given the next morning off so we went to the coast for a Xmas breakfast and to swim off the hangover in the icy Med.
We discovered a beach (now always 'Xmas Beach') and played boule and cricket (boys v girls) and rolled back the years.

That Night the Wine was the Colour of Blood

That night the wine was the colour of blood

I held my glass to a candle

To catch the purity of the mundane

You were so happy

That you danced with a chair

Twirling it until we were all giddy

At midnight by the fire in ‘La Place’

We dipped our tongues into plastic cups

Filled to the brim with wine from a box

And swore that next year would be better

Later we feasted on figatelle

And chestnut polenta

Gifted by proud villagers

Who knew that we would soon be gone

We returned, sanguine

But, never was appetite so sated

Drunk on cheap wine and friendship

Blessed, on Christ’s day