Meteorite in the Australian desert
Nothing here has changed at all
since this burnt rock thrust itself
deep in dirt red as sword wounds
all those thousands of years ago.
Once the noise that no one heard had faded
and the cloud of blood that hid the sky
had settled, this exile waited
for someone or something that might evolve
while the constellations slowly swirled
around an unseen vortex:
teardrops of angels
stirred into a black cup of loneliness
by the finger of a hand so vast
that even the gods of the galaxies
would not know what to call it.
Our planet scorched a hundred mouths
on this ragged surface,
but they all speak unknown languages;
maybe those to be will learn them all
and come to understand
that not everything has a reason.
There should be many others
gathered round this patient grail
to watch until that day arrives,
but there’s only me sitting in the dust
among the countless shrubs
and ants glinting in the sun.
As the sprawling wash of black
sweeps the desert cold,
I warm my hands over this stone
that lost its heat
before there was anyone to feel it;
I’m made from the same stellar slag-heap,
equally cold and ancient
and just as alone and uncomprehended.
Published in Crow of Minerva magazine