by ROSS JACKSON
Usually solo hikers, diffident by nature, they trudge in line
each one eyeing the ground on the trail ahead
for the first hour or two—
the only sign of individuality
is in diverse patterns of their boot soles impressed into mud
no chatter; most of them daydreaming beneath tree ferns
drifting sunlit, dust motes of thought
A little diffidence sweated off on day two
in a shared slog up an alley of dogwood
to the sound of the currawong’s raucous call
until a boardwalk winding over cushion grass and coral fern
becomes a platform for some sidling talk
between a few in the group
On the third hike, some silly stuff
such as, Pamela proposes a scabbard for walking poles…
Gordon earns the label of ‘The Quiz Kid’:
‘Why do lichens come in many different colours?
‘When wombat meets wallaby on wallaby track
which one has right of way?’
‘Why does wombat poo come out in cubes?’
By the end of the week the cliques of two or three
worn into a deep groove
they’ve turned into nimble rock wallabies
avid feeders off whatever’s been passed by
joint memories of the hikes may become
sepia creeks bubbling up now and then
between the cracks
in what’s left of their meandering lives