Kati Thanda/Lake Eyre
By Rachael Mead
There’s nothing there, no horizon
water and sky melded, seamless.
From solidity the ground begins to give
and we crack through crust,
our steps leaden with mud
holding us to the earth.
The shallow sea has frozen into salt
ripples like fossils of its final tide
drying into tiny tectonic continents,
rims grinding with crystalline crepitus.
Water oozes up until our steps float
and then we are ankle deep in sky
there is no up, no down,
the air no longer a ceiling
our arms flap for balance,
we are flying in the lake, swimming in sky,
there is no edge, just here.