Big Rain

Catherine Trundle


After land descends, becomes

a soft larval skin, borne down beneath

this new sea        all things with


sap and blood break inward

and thunder rides the cattle fields


as you,

stopped on the step, mothy grin, float

pistachio shell canoes across the lawn

predicting how    soon

a scudding light will return. To the



As stones go swimming and grow alfalfa tips,

we’ll learn to live here

a second time


Words sink in a flood, I said. Words

find their teeth when they worm

through mud, promising things




used to mean knowledge, and later

one’s native lands. Now, our likeness

roams as silt through aquifers,

breaths back from culvert cracks

across the fern gully


Our children are busy

sowing brassicas along the coal seams.

Unseated, in abeyance, this land

is a limber coin.

Still prone


Still pleasant for

the pigeon who visits us at noon

Her arcs are careless but she coos

Over time, this sound will soften up

the hunting grounds

and birth flax



Catherine Trundle is a writer, mother, anthropologist and academic, based in Wellington, New Zealand. She writes flash fiction, poetry and experimental ethnography. Recent work has appeared in Not Very Quiet and Flash Frontier. She is the co-editor of Commoning Ethnography, a journal that seeks to trouble the boundaries between academic thought and creative expression.

%d bloggers like this: