Sam Rose

Iceland

I see the fire before I see
the land of ice, I see sun-dipped
clouds as I soar and they are
on fire until they become field,
they are pink and they look like
solid ground, like the future
often does –
curiously comforting,
suspiciously static
the above and the below soften
so much they begin to merge,
above the below I see it clearly.

I hold the fire,
I am the fire, at least
that’s what I tell myself
the future is soft fire burning
only to help, to warm, not to
scald or char. Perhaps all fire
thinks it is helping, I muse

as the plane begins to droop

my eyes are starry-skied
and we land, we drink in
the landscape, we settle in,
we drink blue lagoons with
lemon moons
carved out by a careful
barman’s hands, I sit back
in a chair too big for me,
I watch the snow through the
draughty window and fear
the pavement, hope my shoes
grip like a needle knowing its
place on vinyl. Something about
this place feels final, this is a
once-only place, a one-shot place
the land of fire and I see it all,
the frozen waterfalls caught in the
act, geysers performing on command,
tales of elves that might just be true

we climb high to get the best view
of even higher places, we go down
into the basement to look at
volcano photography but I feel
nothing is on top of me, I feel
we could slide through this entire
city, I feel broken but patched up
with parts that are new, I feel
like maybe this is a ritual:
travel is not just a place you go
but a place that goes to you.