The Cask the Reverend Stores His Wine In (Firkin)

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
Here in the vestry, Reverend Goss's firkin stands,
oak staves bound by iron hoops, eighteen inches tall,
twelve across the belly. I run my tape along your curve,
from the bilge to the chime, noting each measure.
You hold nine gallons, or so the old books say,
but let's confirm: circumference at the head, forty-two point five.

[Chorus]
Firkin, you old British cask, keeper of the wine,
Reverend Thomas Henshaw might have filled one like you in 1847,
with port for the sacrament, rolled three times round the yard
against spoilage. I address you now, vessel of oak and iron,
what secrets do you hold in your damp, vinous dark?

[Verse 2]
Brass tap gleams at your base, pewter cup waits below.
I turn it slow, hear the drip—sharp tang of sherry fills the air,
fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit, autumn light slants through the window.
St. Mary's Church, Yorkshire, 1860, a line in the ledger:
'One firkin for sacramental wine, value three shillings.'
Your cross carved on the lid, faint under my fingers.

[Bridge]
You were a quarter-barrel once, vierdekijn from Dutch shores,
now here on Point Nemo, far from Norfolk coopers.
I measure again: height exact, no warp in the wood.
Do you remember the hands that bound you, unnamed craftsmen?

[Chorus]
Firkin, you old British cask, keeper of the wine,
Reverend Thomas Henshaw might have filled one like you in 1847,
with port for the sacrament, rolled three times round the yard
against spoilage. I address you now, vessel of oak and iron,
what secrets do you hold in your damp, vinous dark?

[Verse 3]
No vehicles brought you here, perhaps a handcart long ago,
but now you sit in stone-walled quiet, musk of earth and wax.
I note the temperature, the smell—aged wine and oak,
late afternoon, four o'clock shadow on the wall.
Your gaps in the record: who made you, who carried you?
Unwritten labors, like mine, tap-turning boy.

[Outro]
Firkin, your measure is taken, nine gallons true.