by TONY STEVEN WILLIAMS
Breathless morning, a flotation of fog,
my nostrils lemon cool, fresh and vibrant.
Lake George is shrouded, but I see plenty
closer by from my hilltop vantage; especially vines:
autumn-gold, destined for leaf fall.
The hills behind the vineyard, where I sit,
are fault-scarp steep, cushioned with untidy
wet grass, punctuated with clusters of trees
gazing upwards as trees prefer, yet others lean
down the inclines as if running to safety from land
that still can shake, reminding us who really rules.
It’s start-of-day quiet, with the occasional
arrhythmic thumping of tyres on the dirt road.
A faint pearl of sunlight pushes down
through the mist. Yes, I see it all up here
on this rock of lichened granite, scat everywhere,
mostly from macropods somewhere near,
perhaps resting from illicit sampling
of spilt shiraz after hopping down
to the winery in the early hours.
A quick skink flickers past my feet.
I hear a repeated shick-shick – probably
an Eastern Spinebill. Overhead, a rare pair
of Little Eagles figure-eight the lightening grey.
It’s peaceful, hazily beautiful, but a background drone
of traffic from the busy highway between winery
and lake is unnaturally loud in this still moist air.
I wish I had a volume knob at hand on my rock
to mute it out, but that road has led me here,
and I am grateful.
Lerida Estate Winery, Collector, NSW