Swizzle Stick

Taking a Shortcut

I descend sideways, a deliberation,
rocks of sand crumbling in the ripples
of my bootsoles. My walking stick is not
meant for bush tracks, yet here I am.
I am determined, perhaps stubborn,
or merely foolish, pushing down this path,
a steep shortcut, ghostly verticals
of gum trees watching me with indifference.
Pain brings no shortcuts. There are two
kinds of pain,push-through-it pain
& stop-right-now. I stop, collect
my breath, plant my cane between roots
into soil. Not that long ago, I would fly
through such space without thought.
The beauty of the track, knotted
& irregular, eerie & shadowed, no
railings, no phone signal, is not meant
for people like me, but here I am, determined,
perhaps stubborn, or merely foolish.




April 27 - beauty