Below the city’s cobblestones it shifted, restless and hungry. It had been years; decades, since it had seen the light of day. The cellar was dark and dank; its spirit contained.
Occasionally people visited, sure. Kept it company for a brief moment in time. Inspected it, observed its colour, noted the effects of living in the cellar. It was turned over, moved from side to side, and then left alone again. It was no life. No comparison for the greatness it had been destined for.
It remembered a time when the sun had glossed over its skin. When the rains had washed over the sinews of its body. It longed for those days but the glass held it captive. It longed to breathe again. It longed to be poured, viscous and luscious. Hungry to be tasted and appreciated.
Instead, the wine waits for its time.
By Sarah ©2017
Prompt: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, First Line Friday – July 21st 2017
Author’s note: Nicholas Ruinart was the first wine-merchant to understand the significance of damp underground cellars with a steady temperature of ten or so degrees for the process of developing wine. He set up his business on Saint-Nicaise hill in 1769, prompting a great many others to follow suit. Today, there are therefore no fewer than 200 km of cellars and chalk tunnels stretching out under our feet, protecting millions of bottles of wine slowly developing 20 to 40 metres below ground level.