THE MEMORY OF WATER
Central Australia 50,000 years ago.
Every waterhole is smaller and farther away
than the one before and the plain no longer remembers
the forest that once stood here. They stagger on,
a clan of exhausted Diprotodon
seeking escape from the flooding dryness,
their mighty front claws scuffing up dust
that floats above in a choking cloud
and then settles on their fur,
mingling with the ash from the fires.
Ever more slowly they follow the memory of water
where they will leave their massive bones to puzzled scientists
and the legend of the Bunyip to the Dreamtime.
Every waterhole is smaller and farther away
than the one before and the plain no longer remembers
the forest that once stood here. They stagger on,
a clan of exhausted Diprotodon
seeking escape from the flooding dryness,
their mighty front claws scuffing up dust
that floats above in a choking cloud
and then settles on their fur,
mingling with the ash from the fires.
Ever more slowly they follow the memory of water
where they will leave their massive bones to puzzled scientists
and the legend of the Bunyip to the Dreamtime.
AFTER THE BUSHFIRE
The smouldering night has exhausted itself
and sunrise bleeds away the bruises,
slipping a red gold mask over the landscape,
eyes half shut against the drifting ash.
Burnt trees stand in piles of cinders
that will soon be cold and dense as omens;
syllables of a scattered alphabet
asking questions of their ragged shadows.
Underneath the forest’s puzzled face
and the ground’s grey bankruptcy lie seeds
that have waited years for this, as if to say
let me breathe again, give me back the sky.
and sunrise bleeds away the bruises,
slipping a red gold mask over the landscape,
eyes half shut against the drifting ash.
Burnt trees stand in piles of cinders
that will soon be cold and dense as omens;
syllables of a scattered alphabet
asking questions of their ragged shadows.
Underneath the forest’s puzzled face
and the ground’s grey bankruptcy lie seeds
that have waited years for this, as if to say
let me breathe again, give me back the sky.
THE TOMORROW SYNDROME
By the time we get there, it will be ours,
the future; no shocks, safe and familiar.
I want to believe that, I really do,
but there is so much to not think about
and there will always be more from now on
lurking just out of sight like hyenas
trailing us through each resource war desert,
flooded shoreline and crowd of refugees,
every newly-created slum or ruin,
waiting to crush the bones of resistance.
the future; no shocks, safe and familiar.
I want to believe that, I really do,
but there is so much to not think about
and there will always be more from now on
lurking just out of sight like hyenas
trailing us through each resource war desert,
flooded shoreline and crowd of refugees,
every newly-created slum or ruin,
waiting to crush the bones of resistance.
S.C. Flynn was born in Australia of Irish origin and now lives in Dublin, Ireland. His poetry has been published in more than ten countries and was shortlisted for the Allingham Poetry Prize.