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poems

Bottle Of Wine

It’s red, the bottle of wine. At this time, on a friday night, there isn’t much left. The book is open, face down, on the stool in front of me. A good book, but it has already¬†served its purpose, for the evening.

John sits on the sofa, smacking his lips, after a bread roll, watching the snooker, on the telly. Six reds, six blacks, a disappointing miss. It’s green, the snooker table. The black is black. The book is read, like the wine.

By Trefor Davies

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