Heidagaes

Eyes shut to the yellow-grey glow
above the icy, new-born land,
I feel the sea mist rise up from the South.

One tin hut below us
- the only sign of our print upon the land.

Fyll encircle the cliff, returning to colonial nests
in a cacophony of guttural cries;
ownership and instinct.

The rain has made the lichen seem brand new;
wet orange paint on old, decaying wood.
The smell of thyme fills the air
and I find arctic river beauty;
spongy and filled with light.

Stillness takes hold, delicately,
and words are lost to the North Atlantic breeze
that carries a perfect skein of Heidagaes
above this folkloric cliff.

Alft

I knew that there would be mountains.

Vast, volcanic; violet hues grasping at grey snow-light.

The rift, too, long imprinted on the map on my inside, certain;

almost known.

The moss, botanical expression of courage

alongside memories of horses, brown and wild.

This land of fire and ice; etched in columns of basalt on my mind.

Pink-footed geese fill the fields

and fly powerfully above me; filling the sky with wonder.

And then they appear, against a backdrop 

of wooden Church and cotton bog-land;

elusive and melancholic as the dancing lights .

Painted cream and yellow by the snow and sun;

back from Alba.

No words can frame this moment.

I will hold it, like ice in my hands,

until the Winter comes back home.