‘Early of ages

when nothing was.

There was neither sand nor sea

nor cold waves.

The earth was not found

nor the sky above.

Ginnungagap was there,

but grass, nowhere.’

'The Sibyls Prophecy  .3.’ From one of the Icelandic Sagas.

Day one

I sat on the verge of panic 

as the silence wrapped itself around my chest.

This is what I’ve been primed for,

with that Suffolk root

but nothing could prepare me for the muted,

thick timelessness of northern Iceland.

The sky changed its colours as quickly as a newborn breaths.

slinking around me,

seeping in like a narcotic.

Inky tones and fifty types of snow, 

joined unceremoniously in a dance with the wind.

My every move dictated in the breath of this isle.

Thank goodness for snow boots.

Windy Waltz

When it lulls for just one moment,

you feel almost privileged that its allowing you to walk without

stagger, stumble, side step stopping,

mid air pace shifting, holding you in a moment if equilibrium. 

Before engaging you once more,

in its treacherously tentative waltz. 

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