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