On these long, fruitful days, the Rioja
which captures the sun of other Julys,
is relaxing us, as is the summer,
into this unwinding and earthy wine,
into sex on the hoof, on the sofa,
the Persian rug on the sitting room floor,
in the hall, the kitchen by the cooker,
up against the fridge, by the cupboard door,
so I turn down the steaks as they sizzle
and prevent potatoes boiling over,
just as we turn up the heat, then simmer,
get down to some sugar-icing drizzle,
as if the baby we’re trying to make
were spontaneous as a lemon cake.