Read/Write/Poem: Eat Drink

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Bare feet running between
rows of grapes land
with abandon on
old vine cuttings still
lying on the ground.

The scent of
ripening fruit hangs
heavy over the valley
and we are chasing
birds, timing our
sprints to the explosion
of the cannon that
they have learned
to ignore.

It is April and our
parents are harvesting.

Beyond the grapes
Feijoa trees are dropping
their fruit. We
race to collect
them before the
centipedes move in.

At home bunches of
Muscat in a brown
paper bag are
sitting on the bench
sweating juice.

Our plucking fingers
are sticky, our mouths
prickling at their
sharp sugary taste.

More feasting here.