Spring in Myvatn

A deep stand of
Trees once grew here-
The Northernmost
Of island homes

Iceland, home to flocks
Birds of every North
Then came the monks
And then the Norse.

And the Frigg-blessed
green gave way
to ships and staves
to fire and forge.

Millenium
has passed since then
Now seeming it
Was always so,

The blue expanse
of rocky snow,
Wind whipping wild
The naked plain.

But Myvatn
Greens again
The willows grow
On sparkling shores.

Perhaps time's wheel
has turned full round?
May ancient seeds
Find fertile ground.


Lilja