Wine

They told him to retreat,
and it seemed like a sensible plan.
Easily, the most sensible to date.
What they failed to mention, though,
Was just how far to run.

Three days later, he's almost sure
that it's safe to stop.
An empty fuel tank confirms his decision.
He wonders, without caring, where
he's ended up.

He sneezes as he pops the hatch,
comforted by his hayfever, pleased
to smell something other than war.
He leaves his boots inside the tank,
and reminds himself of the benefits of barefootedness.

He knows he'll never wear the boots again.

As he wanders into the vineyard,
he sees the grapes are ripe - too ripe.
He knows the men who should be
picking them are far away.
They've gone as far as he's come.

The old farmer is glad for the help.
They'll never pick it all, but
It won't all be lost now.
They may just even get
Three whole cases of wine for their trouble.

He knows it's the best trade he's ever made.