The road unravels into blue horizons,
a ribbon drawn toward the glacier’s mouth.
Mountains stand in silence,
their shadows heavy,
their crowns white,

We walk into the rawness of stone,
moss softening the scars of fire,
water carving the valleys,
air so sharp it cuts thought away
until only wonder remains.

A feather on black sand
the earth whispering,
Life is slow,
but it always arrives.

At the waterfall the rainbow bends,
a bridge of light trembling above us.

Glaciers break into drifting cathedrals,
ice turning and collapsing
with the patience of centuries.
Each crack is a hymn,
each shard a sermon,
the lake a silent congregation.

Lava fields ripple underfoot,
frozen mid-scream,
stone rivers of once burning tongues.
Here the land is young,
here the earth still learns
how to wear its own skin.

We sit in the campervan,
boiling coffee on a stove
as if fuelling our spaceship
before another leap into the wild.
We laugh, mugs raised,
steam fogging the window,
the galaxy of Iceland
waiting outside.

And in the high valleys
where waterfalls thread the cliffs,
I stand trembling in awe
for here, in this land of fire and ice,

the world is not finished.
It is beginning.