I whisk and sop up flowered crop,
Gilded bread balms the air.
I wick the waxen throne once sewn,
And shade hair fade to fair.Hexadic rind, manna, soma,
A theft left wanting more.
Honeyed wine for a wearied mind,
Drunken, yet still we pour.© Sayer Teller

Great poem.. I have never tasted mead yet I can relate to the troubles it is intended to drown.. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Nice poem, one of my favorite drinks 🙂 Have a bunch I really need to bottle up!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Mine as well, my friend. Making spirits is a great past-time, made plenty of cider and wine in the past myself. A nice winter apple cider cures the blues of a grey winter’s night.
LikeLiked by 1 person
It does give one an appreciation of things. The science and trials behind making a perfect taste. Then the drinking gives such inspiration.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Nothing sweeter than the fruits of one’s labours.
LikeLiked by 1 person