At World’s End at Vik Beack, Iceland
I left my memory in a damp cave
protected by a moat of black sand.
An oil lamp lay abandoned on a moss shrouded log
and a flock of Hrafen danced above in a sacred rhythm.
Waves folded in soft pleats against the shoreline
and the smell of damp seaweed
aroused me to grab a cup of Kjötsúpa soup
and coffee at the cafe up the mountain.
I turned towards another visitor to make conversation but
he turned away from my eyes and I remained alone.
I visited that cave once more, twice more, and lastly in prayer.
Each time, I wore a red knitted sweater from home.
To dream of the creatures that have graced this very place!
What stories did they bring? What songs remain?
No comments
Post a Comment