Iceland

Island of ice and fire.

Interminable summer light.

Winters that seep into an abyss.

The Northern lights: dancing rays of colour.

A country that fell under the weight of capitalist dreams.

A global lesson learned.

And in the spring of 2010 Gaia reigned supreme in this country:
Volcanic ash polluting the skies
Skies which have borne the burden of plane trails, semi-permanent scars of the air.

Dust and ash have created worldwide meltdown.
Blurred our feverish desire to travel.
It began from dust and from ash something new stirs; something mysterious and unknown.

---------------------------------
Iceland is all over the news at the moment. I do find something comforting in all of this though - the thought that for the first time in decades we have air-free space. I hope the atmosphere enjoys the break.

I read a Borges poem called 'Iceland' on Saturday. I came across it randomly and it seemed somehow prophetic.

Iceland (by Jorge Luis Borges)

Iceland of the seas,
how lucky all men are that you exist.
Iceland of the silent snow and the fervent water.
Iceland of the night that overarches
our wakefulness and sleep.
Island of the white returning day,
young and mortal as Balder,.
Icy rose, secret island,
you were Germania's memory;
you saved for us
her snuffed-out, buried myths:
the ring that sires nine rings more,
the giant wolves from iron woods
that will devour sun and moon,
the ship Someone or Something builds
with the fingernails of the dead.
Iceland of craters that bide their time,
and of quiet flocks of sheep.
Iceland of still afternoons
and stalwart men
who are sailors now and boatmen and parishioners,
and who yesterday unearthed a continent.
Island of long-maned horses
that beget on lava beds and grass,
island of water filled with coins
and unquenched hope.
Iceland of the sword and of the rune,
Iceland of the great doomed memory
that knows no longing for the past.