THE WINE CELLAR
In certain moments, I open the door
that leads down to the hidden place. The musty air
of neglect and broken resolutions
meets me each time and the steps are covered
with dust that I sweep away with my feet.
It takes courage to descend without light,
but I know it is the best way. Darkness
soon joins with silence and the air is still
and cool. I never reach the bottom step,
but the vapour of the limitless draught
stored below rises, filling me with peace,
inebriating me with hope, until
I must climb the steps again
to face the tiring assaults of the senses.
HORIZON DREAMING
Streams of flying ants are bursting
from the ground, pouring out
through cracks in the hard baked dirt
like jets of steam from a heaving cake;
not thrown into this world to find their way
but bridging earth and sky
for a million simultaneous moments
on fresh disposable wings,
thrust up by an annual depth impulse
that millions of years still haven’t satisfied
and then whirring into the blue furnace
towards a future as ancient
as the endless red dust they come from.
Published in ZiN Daily
S.C. Flynn 