Camping

by STEPHANIE POWELL 

It’s a real bastard, the breeze
Going into my coat

Combing the pores
Between fibres

Fresh from the Strait –
Salmon has cooled itself in this air

The pines around the
Caldera bend

I do not see you standing
On the track

Half obscured by thicket
Or indifferent

Between gaps
In the glade

But exposed, hands and head
Lowered and working

Finding entry into
The earth to knuckle

In a tent peg, how
Proud am I

To see the life
Driven into that soil