black sand, a low drum
volcano bones stacked like sentences
the ocean edits everything
iceland teaches the extremes
fire under ice
wind that pries open your ribs
light that refuses to go away
dark rocks keeps the score of eruptions
moss stitches them, pauses
rain writes its brief letters in the cold
here, the compass unlearns itself
north is a rumour
east is a bruise of dawn
you walk by texture, not by map
leave no trace, only temperature
a footprint that forgets you
salt on the lip, sulphur on the tongue
the shore is a threshold not a place
waves arrive carrying yesterday’s mountains
and leave with your certainty
stand still long enough
hear the earth turning pages
lava cooling into memory,
glacier breaking, counting seconds
on these dark shores, you are no one
just a pulse,
just you, small and exact against the vastness
when the sky finally fractures into green
it is not spectacle, but instruction:
be the raging fire
that lights up the night