In the police vehicle we are pushed close to one another, this is not
a problem, we are family, brothers, friends, we share blood and rank,
we have discussed war and conflict, government developments, land
use, authority and religion, so we huddle close, comfortably, and also
to avoid the cold which is slipping in the cracks.
The blankets they have given us are thin, they do not warm us very well
and they do not feel like the ones at home, they have the wrong smell
and of course, too, they are trying to deal with a wind we never have
to fend off back home. Southern winter, snow on the ground, still
travelling, always a cold floor for our feet, these ridiculous blankets.
The policemen are courteous enough to give us cups of tea, which is
hot in our hands and mouths. But like the blankets it is not enough,
so we keep huddling, we talk about the pathways up the mountain,
the shells on the beach which indicate that a feast took place.
2 comments:
I love the way you use the discussions that they've had as a reason for them to huddle close, as well as the whanau bond.
This piece feels elusive - like there is more to be said, or explained. The time period or location/country doesn't seem specific - perhaps this is intentional. It does feel evocative, but I'm not sure of what!
PS: you and your prose!
Where's the poems at boy?! :P
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