Beach camping

 

A gust antagonises
the tarp and flaps me
from the mattress

to inspect galvanized guards.
An all night stand
after three months rest in the base 

of the trailer. Pegs grip
earth and guy rope.  

Twang!

Taut enough. Satisfied
to return to bed and no need to pee
I turn to see a spider absent

from its home of
swinging raindrops and torchlight.
Asleep in a corner
branch to fix slack lines in the morning.

I towel my hair, flash
the time.  Forty minutes
since the last check. 

 

 

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Up here

I plant my feet
in steep leaf mould

it threatens
to let go 

I lick the soil
in the air; a mixture
of oxygen, water
and a slit of sunlight

I zigzag like ground locals
this place asks for instincts
lichen give directions

the mug, sleep-sack, bread 
and spuds slice into my shoulder
heavier than thoughts

It’s been great committing to writing the Stinson series earlier this year.  I’ve had a bit of a break and now working on other things.  This one seems to hang up there in Lamington National Park so I just wanted to share it.  I hope to return to all the Stinson poems again one day.  They need plenty of editing and I want to finish the series and get the two blokes down off the mountain.  Thanks to those who have read and shared your thoughts along the way.  It’s been very encouraging.   Andrew