Who am I writing for?

Once we had formed an idea of the next route and taken a miunte to refresh our energy, we took photos of the surrounding valleys. If we came back this way it might be in an awful rush and and terraforming left to complete may take us thorugh passes that couldn’t be managed by our currently alloted transports. Sanderson took us down into the nearest low alittitude food catchment and we spent the next three days foraging and baiting, preserving and caching. Some of us took some time to do our monthly class 1 overhaul on our hardware while the recce officer and squawk took turns to debate the effectiveness of our last rearguard action. I reported back to HQ and recieved updates, provided my own summary and took some time to consider team morale as it had been four months without significant rest and I believed the tensions within the team were starting to effect mission efficacy. I planted an apple tree for my love.

Thoughts about late summer

Winter observes everything with reverent attention”. The meaning of this vignette of Russian poetry is exposed in the late part of summer. It’s only when the intensity of summer repeateadly saps your stamina that you long for the somber winter when the rhythyms of life run more contemplatively. The yearning starts once the holiday period is over. Work and school start in earnest. We run ourselves ragged as the ongoing rush of Vitamin D to the head provokes an unsaid agreement for us to reject cycnicism and we loudly clamour to outdo each other’s levels of enthusiasm for overly-ambitious projects. Then we slowly realise our back-of-the-eftpos-receipt plans are snowballing. Rinsing off in swimming holes is now rare. The soft intoxiation of fatigue is ever present and while the exuberance brought by long hours of sunshine conquers vissitude, there is one pernicious summer pest that we cannot overcome by vigour. That pest is the great unease of the soul that emerges in the evening hours when the desire to put the children to bed conflicts with their complaints that it is too early. They run wild at a time meant for repose. They cannot be tamed while the sun is up no matter the thickness of curtain. What refuge is there for the permissive parent who respects the natural order? So bring on frost and chill and damp because you bring the quiet with you. Welcome old Jack. Give me back my evenings’ mediatative solace in the peace that early bedtimes bring.

Trust Might Settle

Trust Might Settle

I come into a listless place
suddenly among chipped shadows
 for whose falling apart
 rocks on distant hills shudder

my talking mind
recoils against the smallest things

When the phones rings
what lies there on the street
in white snow
goes to rest
and gives the heart a warm glow

but the phone call never comes
she doesn’t lie
do I believe that yet?

the weight of trust
still shifting