and their vineyards are wasted by time
the grapes once sweet in the sun are now bitter as the moon
for the sun is a contrary beast
bracken rules the plantings like an overlord and the wires are rusted fair in the equinox
posts bent askew resemble defiant sentries in some elemental battle lost to history
the work of human hands
and some skinny kid runs around plucking the warm globes in the slumber days of his childhood
spitting out the pips
ripping joy in the plain sight of time
Flynnpoetry 
Rich, evocative. Reminded me also of a personal experience in NZ , where a newly built fenceline was covered by volcanic ash following the Mt Tarrawerra eruption a 100 years ago- causing all the fence posts burst into life and the paddocks are now surrounded by huge poplars in geometric fenceline boundary rows – a reverse effect of what you are describing
Sent from my iPad
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Hello Marek, I have deliberately corrupted the word “ruined” vines with “runed” vines to augment the sense of mystery and magic as a “Rune” signifies magic in the piece. I like my work to have an almost hallucinatory dimension. It is a real story cos as a child the ramparts of our neighbour’s house was decorated with grapes plump and warm in the sun delicious. I was that skinny kid.
The imagery of what you describe in New Zealand is extraordinary. Cheers, David.
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