We bundle up our ulcers
accumulated in domesticity’s
damp and private grotto
& lug them dutifully on our frail backs
as we fly hand-in-small-hand above the Tasman.
The texture of this headland, as luxe as thrush at dawn.
The fractal bloom of unquiet thoughts,
garrotting the navigation of sky-tearing
peaks. The tent has become
a surgically constructed empire,
worthy of assembling and dissembling,
cavities and ecosystems.
Fossicking for an ethereal dosage
potent enough to mute memories
of all that has sprouted,
unwanted and wild
in the humid undergrowth
Tramping Through Headlands
1 August 2015