Australian Antarctic Territory, midsummer
Under the frozen anaemia of summer,
the still air smells like dry gods melting.
The iceberg hides its whiteness in this blue,
hoarding the red light like dragon’s jewels
and letting go the violet rays;
if it could hold those fast as well,
the mountain would drift by like a black hole,
sucking in the light and giving nothing back
except a passing touch of phantom cold
and a gentle fizz as it spits out
ancient air that dinosaurs might have breathed.
This giant piece of mosaic
has dripped up the cloudy glass
at the bottom of the world,
snatching fossils and mummified lichen
and bringing ages of close- packed memories;
permafrost answers to a world of questions
that will soon melt away, but not just yet.
There’s still time to feel the quiet ghosts
writhing under our boots
if we softly rush without slipping.
Published in Antipodes
S.C. Flynn 