small wonder

Gillian Wigmore

"There is more landscape inside this tent/ Than out"

Charles Lillard

once on the water we see more than we expect:
a depth of pure jellyfish
and gannets dropping like accidents out of the hot winter sky

on land, wild goats barr our way to the outhouse
we begin asking ourselves and each other
is there another way?
sharks bask off-shore,
barracudas eat our dinner off the line

I incubate our few options
and brood and wonder
if twenty kilometres by water means more to you
than dinner, than my throbbing wrists
than the start of life we both guessed at and missed,
amazed all the while
by incandescence swirled from a paddle tip

there is more landscape inside the tent than out
more sandflies than bites on my arm
more sacrifices to make than either of us can count
and neither of us count -
we steam mussels in south island plonk
straight out of the silver bag
you feed me one off the fork
seafood offers no answers
but satisfies the parts of us desiring

what we don't know is greater than the darkening landscape
the strange hills behind us -
we gather our heat in the space between us
and feed our unshaped fear with fish

still cold and twitching

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tent: no shelter

when the wind is more real than the earth
than the tent, than the whip and break of waterproof fabric
in front of your face where you lie face up to a storm
of tremendous proportions
which hammers the mountain top
and the face of the earth
where you lie wishing for light
for just another morning so the battering ends -

a break,

and then you hear it coming
ripping up the slope to ram the tent broadside flat across your chest
open eyes, closed eyes, full bladder, tears
nothing matters but that sound
the wind
backing off the better
to pounce


when the tent is no shelter
when your legs are useless from packing your useless home twenty miles in a day
to lie down on volcanic rock to wait for the weather
to have no persona, no vindictive behaviour, no desire to shred you -
erosion is a horrible thought

the bones of the tent wear holes through their sockets
the sleeves of man-made fabric weaken and rip
and the wind when it lets up
lets only the tent up


you lie still until morning not trusting
the stillness, the silence, the earth to be whole when you unzip
when you outstretch and rise into a scoured day
unrested and worn ragged
when the wind retreats do you raise your arms in victory
or do you pee weakly behind a bush
weary
but obviously living?

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