Château Blouin
Red Bordeaux Blend
Bordeaux, France
Kicking back letting the local tunes adjust my attitude with wine:30 showing on the clock she strolls in my direction digging the slow roll Hendrix spinning left then twisting right dressed in deep purple clinging and flowing interestingly crimson along her rim and edges back to casually claret whispering that she's from a small chateau hanging on the right bank of the Gironde near Arveyres. Offering her hand, I accept pulling her in close then a slow spin and a slower twirl she comes close bathed in the essence of blackberry and spice, young but ripe, wet earthy slowly working her way to a first kiss dripping then gripping, pulling tightly then going soft and silky still clinging while working her way deeper. I close my eyes, Hendrix stops and she's gone. A distant guitar string bends an unknown player. I spot her by the bar, her colors waving in the breeze of a lazy fan I reach out take her firmly by the neck, then lower bending her gently back then spinning her my way, she again engages, her essence lingering in my memory, we dance on as the tunes continue their spin. Later, when we are both done I figure she's likely a fine Merlot brightened by Cab Franc having found her way through new French oak nestled by the river, intelligently nuanced well worth the dance and cost is not an issue...
Hanging at Promise' Land Market where the tunes are always righteous, the people are cool, the conversation is groovy and wines dance from the walls...
Kicking back letting the local tunes adjust my attitude with wine:30 showing on the clock she strolls in my direction digging the slow roll Hendrix spinning left then twisting right dressed in deep purple clinging and flowing interestingly crimson along her rim and edges back to casually claret whispering that she's from a small chateau hanging on the right bank of the Gironde near Arveyres. Offering her hand, I accept pulling her in close then a slow spin and a slower twirl she comes close bathed in the essence of blackberry and spice, young but ripe, wet earthy slowly working her way to a first kiss dripping then gripping, pulling tightly then going soft and silky still clinging while working her way deeper. I close my eyes, Hendrix stops and she's gone. A distant guitar string bends an unknown player. I spot her by the bar, her colors waving in the breeze of a lazy fan I reach out take her firmly by the neck, then lower bending her gently back then spinning her my way, she again engages, her essence lingering in my memory, we dance on as the tunes continue their spin. Later, when we are both done I figure she's likely a fine Merlot brightened by Cab Franc having found her way through new French oak nestled by the river, intelligently nuanced well worth the dance and cost is not an issue...
Hanging at Promise' Land Market where the tunes are always righteous, the people are cool, the conversation is groovy and wines dance from the walls...
