The burn was different last week. The night before had brought strong winds and the morning was little better. The water was high and the path strewn with branches. The wind hurried me along. I met a man with a wheelbarrrow. It was full of things he had collected, an archive of the paths we both trod. In some ways his collection and mine are similar, in that I collect words and pictures through walking, he, objects. I don’t know what he did with his things, he said he was very busy somewhere up the road. My foraging brings me back here to tell stories.
Wind.
Twa’ shilpit eyes in a snorkel parka,
hurl January at me full in the face.
Tells me he’s off to a job,
points with a tilt of his fur lined hood
to a place away,
up there,
beyond where we are,
known to him and not me.
Well you better get along I said,
you’re forecast.
Aye, he winks,
inhaling on his no.6
dominique cameron 