page 28

The Moon is Upside Down

The winter approaches on four feet,
softly, with clear-cut skies and constellations I do not recognise.

I remember going to sleep on a rock in the snow wearing nothing but a singlet and my boots.

The moon here is upside down.

I remember the faces of my rescue team.
I remember the rescue team but I do not remember the endless faces of an unending team of rescue.

Marama is here a woman like nowhere else on earth.

I remember the unending teams of rescue one year after the next.

The moon here is upside down and each day a simple cigarette becomes a more trying act of will and determination.
First the stockings.
Then the long sleeved underwear.
Long trousers, a hoodie, a jacket, my scarf, boots, boots for the children, jackets for the children, fingerless gloves for cigarette rolling fingers, hats for the children.
Another sock.

The constellations are strange and unfamiliar and the winter approaches on four softly padded feet, quiet like a dog in the snow.

I remember the fire and the rows of books that I saw as I slept in the snow.
I remember one winter after another with more rescue teams than you, even you, with all your maths and learning, could possibly count.
Cigarettes become harder and harder.
page 29 You, with all your maths. There is so much of it.
Me, with my cigarette. Is it really worth it?
Are you?

In these hardened days and abrasive clean-cut nights, your smoke-filled room looms a haven, broad on the edge of a harbour.
I dream of smoky harbours sunk deeply into dusky Autumns.
I dream of fireplaces in the snow alongside rows and rows of books.
I dream of you.
Are you then the man of my dreams?
I dream of cigarettes and Marama and wonder, is it really worth it?