We went for a walk through the trees up the hill by the beach.
The sun was in the sky, I didn’t want to underestimate the heat.
We drank all of the water that we’d brought up to the top, we could feel
our temperatures were on the rise and we were still an hour from the lee.
And when I called your name I couldn’t hear it – you were caught inside a dream.

Dying of thirst on a mountain in Abra de Ilog
is hardly a 51st date idea to make me nod.
We hadn’t told anyone where we were going – gleeful
and gung-ho, we’d swapped all our caution for portions of bihon.
What made matters worse were the warnings of poisonous tree frogs.

On the track running flat from the waterfall, close to the zenith,
we paused by a series of bushes all laden with berries.
Then out from behind came a noise that filled us with terror –
we didn’t agree on exactly what thing it resembled
but that didn’t matter. We ran with our tails tucked between us.

Down through the brown and the green of the jungle we clattered,
thrashing and pelting, devil may care as we batted
our eyelids, twisted our hands into shapes, concertinaed
like Mexican waves as we crashed in a heap to be seated
at last on the carabao grass, sore-bummed and weakened.

Our water out and armpits more than fusty,
the sundry jungle smells mixing with must, we
saw, in winter boots, its nappy chunky,
leg up but hardly proud, a collared husky,
its owner, clad in sliders, making duck face.

FYI: Abra de Ilog is in the Philippines, on the northern edge of Mindoro, which is the island south of Luzon (where the capital is). Frequently, in Manila and other parts of the country, you’ll see dogs that may once, in lives long past, have been ferocious, or at least able to look after themselves, but which, as they’re being trundled about the mall in a baby’s pram, or as they wait patiently outside Auntie Annie’s in their lickle fluffy boots, seem completely removed from the evolutionary process. And yes, you’ll see them even on hikes where dehydration has made your life flash languidly before your eyes, and you will feel, in that moment, even more pathetic than them. Oh, and the title is from ‘Dulce et Decorum est’, a Wilfred Owen poem about the First World War. Thanks for reading!