I plant my feet
in steep leaf mould
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
Their sunken eyes stare
back at me, bodies motionless
and propped against the charred remains
of their flight. The older one leans forward
and stretches out an arm. Shake hands.
It’s like grasping a raw piece of meat.
You poor bastards.
I could’ve been here a week ago.
The two of them watch themselves
run down my cheek and fall from my face.
My hands shake. I try to hide my thoughts
but they can read them.
What’s in the bag?
How about boiling the billy?
It’s routine; the movements
of building a fire and brewing tea
that fight the uselessness of shock.
I remember to breathe, collect what I’m doing here
from the damp forest floor, make plans
to get these guys out of here.
What’s happening in the fifth Test?
John sort of smiles as he asks,
his leg lies out in front of him
open and swelling with maggots.