On Meeting A Man In A Bivvy On A West Coast River

John Atkinson

I've been 14 days in the bush
yawned the shaggy tramper
as the golden syrup trickled into his beard
from the crust of the steaming damper.

The sweat and matagouri
had shredded his tartan shirt
and the strips hanging down to his waist
were only held together by dirt.

But his eyes glowed with satisfaction
as he told us of passes and snow
the joys of the peaks and the valleys
that only a tramper will know.