by Elsa Johnson

Our friend in Iceland sent the scene  :   a grave

yard    stone-cross studded   grey-sky-grey-sea    and

in another shot a rainbow muted  —

melting   —  pale cold sun a-slant old stone walls      

It is always changing he says        That was

on the Solstice  —   two hours and fourteen minutes

of diluted daylight      My mind boggles

over this  :  twenty-one hours and six

minutes of dark winter night after night  —    

all of them tunnel hours     Our northern sires 

knew nothing else             Perhaps it was a gift   —   

that slow time  :   to sing  :   to  carve  :   to love in

darkness                    No  –  no –  no turning back you say

not for us      We are through the looking glass