Morning rouses in the mist
that presses on the frozen ground.
The wind that traipsed across the snow-clogged lava
left footprints where it wandered.
Peering over the settled fog,
Mt. Thorbjorn idles in the stillness
when the sun is awake but
has not risen from its slumber.
Winter takes its respite
from storms waged upon the fells
like raiders who blew out
of the purple north
and returned in long black ships
with finery and riches that Viking swords
and their strong arms had taken at Seville.
The beauty of the north
has made Iceland a land of riches,
not in Viking gold and silver,
but in the smiles of its maidens
and the setting of the winter sun
that looks down quiet streets
of Old Town Reykjavik.
D. Gary Christian
Santa Clara, Utah
October 5, 2009