Drifted back to 1970 in a fit of nostalgia ‘Walking In Iceland.’

Walking In Iceland

The mind tug pulls across the moss grey lava

To feather beds and the sweet smell of moist flesh.

Here the eiders keep their down locked tight above the piercing water

Drifting silent in the violent pools of a cut crust.

Here the flesh is wild and locked beneath the feathers it screams for naked cool.

The mind pulls chewing gum threads from a black ash blanket

Cries out for touch

And is answered by a menthol waterfall.

Her and there lie fallen songs and broken tongues

In this place

Where only luck will answer

Only sometimes.

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