|Mt Frankland, by Elizabeth Edmonds|
The teachermen are back in the hollow just down the hill from my place. They convoyed in yesterday. I sit in bed reading Patti Smith and in their camp they play Neil Diamond and Leonard Cohen and shouts go up as one of them wins a hand. The first year they arrived here, all nine of them, Cohen had just died, and as the strands of his Hallelujah’s drifted through the trees, I knew they would be good people. They drink rum and beer and wine and sing a lot. They light a campfire and lay out swags. They are kindly men; these teacher men and they seek seven day’s healing at the inlet after a year full of teenagers and politics. I wonder what the teacherwomen do. Maybe I'll get to go up the mountain tomorrow.