"Old blends"

Old blends, old blends,
no year-mark clenches like bookends.
Each new grape year’s solera pass
so musts compound, so
become prized dews:
thus the old blends.

Old blends … hinting of Spain’s sun, such gold blends
don’t deserve a toper’s throat, keeping some rum-bum wet.
Their brown hues are pretty, sniffed they do please,
mettled, robust growing older are the old blends.

Can you imagine? Thus years laid away,
there in the dark and quiet they
will barrels exchange ’til they’re heavenly.

Old blends, glimmering lushly like flame years
later when shared. Friends exclaim “Cheers!”

- - - - (musical interlude, segues into "Bookends" theme) - - - -

Time it is to end this rhyme, it is. It is
a time when to commence
quitting this commonsense is.

On to go I can see
is an ill-chosen path.
That would be dim of me --
It’s time I left you.