SALT LAKE Sometimes the future’s flight is straight and smooth like shining summer runways but then it brings you way out here where the ground is endless crust that snaps underneath your feet to free the thick black sludge that lurks below and where the trees are pale dry prisoners thrust deep in permanent winter, their bony arms stretched wide in pleading to whoever might have put them here. Perhaps they come alive each night and clash - giant skeletons under polished moon shield - sharp cracking blows breaking a silence that no one has ever heard but then as dawn approaches they stiffen, joints crunching as their backs grow rigid and their hands lift once again in agony as they stand to face the sun’s cruel gaze like driftwood carved with strange inscriptions. This is my forever world. I walk in, crunching through the flat white sheet to sink in the squelching dark below so my footsteps stretch behind me like black ink spattered on a page; no wind will ever shift them, so when one day you reach this place you’ll know just what they mean. I belong out here where nothing changes; soon I’ll be just a dense heart of decay, an elemental core of toxic life waste, my attention span shrunk to a painful dot while random dreams circle round my head. I take my place among the guilty naked; my roots were poisoned long ago and now my limbs can harden and set. TWELFTH VIEW OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS Uluru, central Australia, tomorrow night The sky kite must be much the same but looking up has changed; war in space is the new theology. Rocket junk floats like so many heresies and orbiting communication links have shouted down the angelic orders. Any old poet who versed to paradise now would have to dodge the pieces and when they start shooting each other's things down with missiles we'll all end up in inferno. Every species on earth is a sacrificial victim slowly bleeding to death in the branches of this blurry tree. BETWEEN MEATH AND KILDARE I wander, a solitary forager like Australia’s formidable Bull Ant, a creature that refuses to abandon existence no matter what it suffers, but my mind keeps going back and forth, asking if life is just a random line on a map without scale or direction, as the Royal Canal I’m following passes from Meath to Kildare and back again. Maybe these kinds of thoughts were useful once, when contemplation could find solutions, but now they are unnecessary tortures that drive me on with ant-like stings and pincers through Kildare to Meath and back again. APRIL 23RD I must have often walked on death unknowing, but at Clontarf the mail coat presses my shoulders as I wade ashore at dawn, spear and shield in hand. Our fleet’s square sails flap behind me in the breeze while the dragons’ eyes seek our enemy and their little spears that swarm like flies. By next high tide our leader will be king as promised or the battle-watchers will have claimed us all; the water leaves us no retreat, but none is wanted. Today I weave a strand in history’s tapestry. Biography: S.C. Flynn was born in Australia of Irish origin and now lives in Dublin. His poetry has been published in many magazines, including The Honest Ulsterman, Cyphers, Abridged and Orbis.