Pork Crackling

Many years ago,
At least quarter of a century,
I had a divine pork roast dinner.
Crackle was well,
'Crackly'.
Baked roast vegetables were crisp on the outside,
Inside almost melting.
Entirety bathed in a cider quenched marinade,
Salty and sweet.

'Bushy' from Broken Hill,
Or was it Bourke?
Who prepared this feast in the college dorm,
Swore by his cast camp oven.

Since that milestone,
Each pork leg I prepare,
Aims to replicate this culinary triumph.
But in twenty five years this ideal alludes me.

It took five years to understand that,
Though well cooked on the outside,
Flesh within may still be rooting about the pigsty.

Today I cook 'Charcoal',
Or is it 'Ash'?
Last years fattened piglets.
Harbingers of  bushfires,
that dominated the Summer they spent with us.
'Scrumpy' in 'Grolsch' bottles,
from post fire ash tarnished apples.

Poignant that today,
Is another Summer day on bushfire alert.

I compose, write and wait tentatively,
For the leg,
And spuds, newly dug,
To metamorphose into the perfect meal.
Complimented by broccoli,
I've yet to harvest,
And sparkling red currant wine......

My apprehension is palpable.