411 – Raisin Hell

Poem number 411

.

Raisin Hell

.

There’s a place where grapes are cut and dried

And shrivelled by the score

It’s a place that has no windows

And there isn’t any door

It’s a place with just a drying-rack

To constitute a view

Plus an artificial heater

And a storage shelf or two

It’s the place where grapes are sent to die

This place of which I tell

This place where grapes are cut and dried

They call it Raisin Hell.

.

It matters not the type of grape

If villain, cad or hero

Riesling ,Merlot, Chardonnay

Sauvignon or Nero

They’ll all end up the same I fear –

A wrinkled chewy shell

Of their former juicy grapey selves

Down here in Raisin Hell

.

There’s never any mercy

And there’s never a reprieve

There’s never any visitors

No relatives to grieve

No retrials, hope or shafts of light

No years on Grape Death Row

Just through the doors and on the shelf

Bye bye it’s time to go

.

It’s harsh and it’s immediate,

Perhaps that’s for the best –

It stops grape expectation

Of a rescue or a rest

Just wham bam ma’am you’re shrivelled

And your family are as well

No future, no redemption

Just an endless Raisin Hell.

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