Uncork an Australian wine,
and sometimes you can smell
the faintest whiff
of sea salt and sweat,
the hunger and fear of those
in the long boats
from the First Fleet
as they row
towards the unfamiliar shore,
the thieves and deadbeats,
counterfeiters and deserters,
each carrying
against his chest,
like a religious relic,
a vinifera rootstock
in a small sack of cloth,
a future as awkward and fragile
as a bottle of wine