by Kitty Owens

The camp-ground rule is Walking Pace Only.
We walk away the argument in the car.
Shush, calm down, both of us.

Time now for the strange labours of camping.
Tightening ropes, plunging hands into ice,
cradling tiny flames from the wind.
The outline of the camp kitchen
forms a rough sketch of our house back in the city.

The wind drops, the river turns the deepest blue,
and then a shining inky black.
Starlight falls on my bare arms,
drenching me with the vitamin
that only starlight provides.

• Barwon Heads, Wadawurrung Country