Night Flight to Griffith

 

I leant my face

against the window

and hoped to see something

I hadn’t seen before—

as the Saab 340 hurtled

towards Griffith

and the lights of Sydney

fell further behind.

 

The reflection of a flashing red strobe light

on the undercarriage

told me the engine was running

and all was well.

A destination to look forward to

although the weather would be cold.

 

I found myself peering deeper

into the rushing darkness

and saw we were flying through snow—

when a pair of hands

reached out from nowhere

and pulled me closer to the glass:

the skin on my face drawn back

and I saw my own death-mask.

 

As quickly as it happened

it was over—in a second

and the distance travelled.

The snow was gone

like flecks of a memory

and we were flying

once more through cold air.

The hands that moulded

my face released me

from the contact with cold glass.

 

Breathing deeply, slowly,

I leant back in my seat

and closed my eyes—

searching the darkness behind them

for the red strobe light

pulsing like a heart in the dark.

 

Peter Skrzynecki

 

Crossing the Styx River

 

The ground hardened

among stones and boulders,

each growing larger the further

I stepped down—holding on to the roots

of fallen trees, branches that hug low

from the weight of shadows,

 

until I came in sight

of the river, in parts only a trickle

among sharp rocks—

the sun breaking through

in arrows of light

among the lashing calls of whipbirds.

Black cockatoos followed

my descent, their echoes more eerie

than the heavy beating of wings.

 

Not possible to blot out

images from mythology—

dark mists, spirits of the dead,

Charon and the coin of payment.

Curiosity had drawn me

to the river—with the force of wind

I never knew existed in me.

 

I stood in water

that was both shallow and deep—

my hands and face cut

on stones and branches.

Rainbow trout swam ahead of me

and left a gift of silver and gold.

 

I didn’t count minutes or hours,

how long I’d walked

on the other side—

whether I’d walked all day

or only taken a handful of steps.

 

Rounding a bend

I no longer cared about going back

or if anyone was waiting for me.

I’d crossed the Styx River

as a stone or piece of wood—

or as a wild bush horse

following the scent of fresh grass.

 

Crossing the river

now seemed a natural thing to do

and I kept going deeper into the earth.

 

Peter Skrzynecki

 

The Inbetween Hour

 

The inbetween hour arrives

before you know it—

when the warmth of the afternoon

disappears and the chill

of evening creeps up.

Whatever you were doing

you failed to notice it

whether walking, talking or reading a book.

 

Walk to the bay and try

to find an answer.

Even before you see water

the taste of salt

touches your tongue. You breathe it.

Lorikeets and cockatoos

are flying inland, turning

to find the last feed of the day.

 

Or, coming home, you hear music

that carries you

into memories and childhood—

a picture of playing

in a backyard around your parents and pets.

Exactly the same hour

touched you then—but you knew nothing

about the meaning of hours.

 

It leaves you none the wiser

but older—a little

sadness mixed with joy.

You’ve lived another day

and welcomed another evening.

A Willy-wagtail dances nearby, watching you,

and there are no words to describe

the effect of its scissors-grinder song.

 

Peter Skrzynecki