S.C. Flynn

PASSENGERS ON THE ICEBERG

Australian Antarctic Territory, midsummer

Then in a patch of clearer ice I see him;

a bearded man with an outstretched hand.

I want to dig him out and ask him who he was,

but then he’s gone and the ice is milky.

Still, we’ve got months to go until the night

and by then the ice man will have melted free.

We’ll have no stars to steer by

except the tireless sensors in the satellites

that track our gobbled microwaves,

out here where only the sky has eyes.

Can you see me up there? I’m waving.

Published in issue 104 of A New Ulster