Black Creek, Rothbury, January 2006

With the creek on its right, the grassfire takes left
on the stiflewind, uphill toward the vineyard and leaps

the last form of scrub before the grapelines. The june beetles
and emperor flies pop out of the vinebrush as the first

leaves start to singe and curl. The scarecrow, with large
toggle buttons for eyes, has endured a look of distress

that's now warranted. With flame at its' back, the wind
neatly combs into the vines' upper canopy of guard leaves.

Rodents dart away from the lower clumps of the ripe
grapes rich with sugar, the orange nitrogen fertiliser ignites

and shoots spats of dirt to their backs. The concord grapes,
beta grapes and those already brown with the jacket rot,

they drop to the ground like the beaten might first discard
a weapon (any grapes that do survive will test the critics'

adjective pool- "an admirable ribaldry; the oddest finish
of cinder & filth; rank with green and the fusty seneca;

deliciously toasty! A wonderful accompaniment
to smoked salmon"). The westerly holds its' duct of smother

as the last trellis line is torn bare with flame. Ruin
is a detailed whim and the burnt climber worms drop

like leaking oil from the stemknots. And having issued its' limits
to the ranging hearth, the land begins to cool into the afternoon.

Tonight, the quails will come out, shake their feathers about
and look for something edible, anything.