Green

All wilderness seemed gone
on the last night in the city.
Days of wandering 
along zig-zag mountains,
(not quite real; kept hidden
across the Atlantic)
all boxed away inside of us.
No signs here, downtown,
of that snowstorm/
those crashes under grey-gold sky;
just beyond troll rocks and pure black sands.

Glacial maps folded away
in preparation for our return to civilization.
And so I begin to grieve, the fragments inside of me,
(reflected in milky blue waters), long to be frozen here
onto this barren landscape; forever.

The city's bright lights, after such vast emptiness,
blind me at the icy harbour.

And then, without warning, they appear; above the grey buildings.
Dancing, in spite of the sound and light, wild and unstoppable;
the Northern lights above Harpa.

You hold my hand, 
as the world around still spins.
As the wilderness covers the city lights
with its green, ancient grip.

Tjaldur

Waiting for the snow to calm,
The land, white and lunar
beneath volcanic heights,
holds its breath.

We journey to the very South
of this Northern Island
in search of barren solitude
and silence.

Water gushes down,
falling like moonlight onto black rocks.
But we can hear no sound at all
from the cliff face,
Until oyster-catchers
undo the bright, still silence;
beautifully.

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.

West

Iceland

Iceland, Spring 2014.

Words and drawings.

West

Paths wind and meander
through passes made from ice and saga;
a fierce and fragile beauty.

Moss, greener than growth ,
covers volcanic rock;
spills onto damp paper
-circles in Icelandic clay.

Light, white as time/
soft as morning;
stillness atop ancient triangles.

Feathers on wet basalt
as time refracts off
blue spring;
life.

You stand beside a map of glacial water
as I collect elements
in my ice cold hands.