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.
