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[Poet’s Note : McGregor is a small rural village in Small Karoo, SA, which experiences extreme winters. It is believed that 8 of Earth’s leylines cross one another in McGregor, making this village a powerful planetary energy junction. My youngest daughter & I were privileged to live on a small holding vineyard in McGregor, for a couple of years, where she attended a small Waldorf (Rudolf Steiner) primary school. Whilst in McGregor I had first close contact with Pleiadian Galactics & their spaceship. 
I initially penned this poem for the “A Vine in Winter” competition sponsored by Craig Cornish. It turned out longer than the 20 specified lines. I trust you will enjoy it anyway.]


McGREGOR VINES IN WINTER 

Summer’s lost to Sun its host
       Winter’s on vines frost boast
                 whimpering sparse spaces 
shivering wrinkled farm workers 
                    deep sleep crinkled most 

still we taste rememberings of
                       divine fruit grape agape
dark liquid ruby drops tickling our 
                        throats like Kali’s song
               to Bacchus’ vine jewels that
long 
       a piercing canine tooth strong

buckets and buckets of grape 
                     offerings we carried to school 
friends devoured them 
                so cool making a lesson a 
vine season drool

Now winds howl winter’s fierce
                        slashings foul
last dry rust leaves 
                        we shivering pick to 
press pictures to frame again 
   stripping stubborn tendrils clinging cold 
                                to welded wire old
chilled winter drills frosty droplets into
                      pale mud lips of leyline soil 
                                                         foiled

now no spinning spiders sweetly suck
                 their potion portions in freezer
                                    fog blank McGregor stuck
misty locked we self-surrender luck

our shameless dwelling shiver shake in 
          sheets of white morning rain 
pain 
        we remain sane with window-
panes all cloudy 
                       you trace a donkey’s mane 
upon them loudly 
    bleak dispersed winter vines wave salute
                    holding fine hail stone
memories its own clone alone   
                        for in tomorrow’s spring
 their galactic grapes hold no 
             sorrow to sing ! 



©GhairoDanielsPoetry&
Song2025
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