‘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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The Voice That Rolls. Their voices roll with the grit of this land. Rhythmic tones lilt at a tempo that distracts from words and meaning, I’m listening, just not hearing the tales and times of buses, but sinking heavily into the growl that seems to start at the soul, and rise to the throat. Clicks and snaps tumble from the lips into the hypnotic tundra. R’s gently resonate across the table, ricocheting off my ear drums. I’m gone. Caught by the melody of this viking tongue. The sentence ends. You smile, nod, and hope you haven’t missed anything too important. And then, it rises again, the voice that rolls with the grit of this land.

PresentationPreparationPanic Hat on boots on bag on back, dash. Key out. in door. open. Grab at skim through pull points push buttons. Hot. Should have, taken Hat off boots off coat off back, relax.