Bird calls rising up out of the quiet earth,
Leaves holding the sunshine in long rows
ripening the fruit for the autumn harvest.

The verraison attracts the gathering birds
and soon the cheerful pickers punctuating
the rows, “this bunch is too good to crush!”

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 bunches.

Then a chill creeps in day by day
upon the once bright green rows of vines
now trooping their colours in thinning ranks,
becoming fire-orange and luminous in the mist.

Providing a soft pause while day-dreaming
the secrets of the year just passed.
Leaves filling blood- red before falling,
each one a poem of quiet acceptance.

The grape sacrifices itself for men’s revels,
we discard our cares and wear the mantles
of judges, kings and clowns, in company
of fellow travellers toasting our luck.

– George Clark