Deus autem spei repleat vos omni gaudio…
To see it happen – malt men shoveling out
The barley mounds with spooning blades, a mouth
Of spit per spade, the rollers leveling out
The grainy graft as hard as God’s own truth –
That’s why the motto for the malters’ guild
Is taken straight from Ovid, undistilled:
My soul would speak the change of forms to shapes
More strange…. The mash-up drained like blood from grapes
In triple batches renders something bolder –
This twelfth-night blend for Advent’s dozen days.
Such labored love, the digging ache repays
In kind to arching arms. Like Monkey Shoulder,
What sorrow was becomes the joy that is –
Through incarnation, metamorphosis.
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