Robert Frost

Wild Grapes

It is that time of year again summer passing in a desultory way in the tree behind the house crows like black shadows of themselves against an enameled lapis sky peck and stab at wild grapes vines escaped over dead limbs black wings winding madly like propellers to keep their balance cawing that deep rough melancholy sigh at once so comic and so human Branches are ripe with every kind of neighbourhood bird finches flashing yellow honey eaters currawong the resident pair of mynas unaccountably grounded and restrained nothing more exotic than a bul bul could find a niche between these temples of concrete and brick we have built in a vain attempt to make ourselves feel secure on this earth time goes inexorably on life takes what it needs it is only we who have over-burdened the supply