An Excessively Sad Account of a Failure to Create Alcohol

The elderflower’s pushing out again –
Frothy with yeast, like heads on beer, and breathing
Sweetish vapours in the canopy
Of sugar-sticky lime leaves. There’s no rain;
The air hangs heavy, pollen-thick. The wreathing
Bindweed’s starting to embrace the tree.
Last year, to show the world I was not sour,
I filled my arms with blooms, and bore them home,
And soused them in sweet water, willed the yeast
To rise again and sparkle from each flower.
But, come next day, there was no living foam;
The stalks lay in low water, slick and greased
With juice of their corruption. Every spray
Was lifeless now; my wine had ebbed away.