From the winery comes the musty smell
of compressed summer, the vineyard
lies like an abandoned bride with
condensation swirling like a veil.
The currawongs shrieking sweet news
as they feed on the hidden branches.
The sun is tiring against the winter tilt
cobwebbed tussocks and fences
show up the dew and early frosts.
The city/bush divide seems greater
as the visitors are dropping away
the legendary fights between city dogs
and working dogs, become distant memories.
In the country towns farmer’s wives
raffle firewood and show hand knitted
woolies and tea cosies in the craft shop
The bakery fills with whiskered men
boots and look at me jackets
I insulate the trough pipes for warmth
sucked up from the land by the night.
Roo shooters and piggers in beanies
bounce their utes along bush tracks
confirming their dominance over
nature’s wild and cold
Such a warm and vivid word picture – thank you George
In another poem I love this line: The hiss of steam, the froth of busy ideas,