In Dante's Hell

In Dante's Hell
the talk goes on
of southern slopes
and vignerons.

They tread a separate
circle there,
the wine-snobs parched
in their despair.

The floors are wide
with stately tables
bearing wine
of peerless label;

the walls go up
in serried racks
of noble imports
free from tax;

the air is rich
with stilton, brie
and camembert
from Normandy.

Like inmates of
some dismal camp
they circle lit
by discreet lamps

and talk of all
the classic years
and cannot quite
hold back their tears

when reminiscing
on all those
varietal wines
with ‘lovely nose’,

the late-picked rieslings
‘autumn-scented’,
the heady moselles
cold-fermented,

the ‘bigness’ of
a certain red
and what might follow
it in bed.

Their terms for him
who set them here
are those they once
reserved for beer.

And as their looks
grow more accusing
they do not find
the wines ‘amusing’

for Satan lets them
talk and think,
do everything
in fact but drink

the vintages
from his high store.
‘To drink,’ he says,
‘would surely bore.

A lifetime spent
in love with talk —
what need is there
to draw the cork?'

And so they ferment
two by two
and pay Beelze-
bub his due.

Their talk is muted,
sad and dry
and not a little
anguished by

the upper circle
howls of pain
from puritans on
French champagne.