Iceland: South Shore Panorama
Ecriture Automatique
I wake up this morning to a world bathed in soft pale light. Long low brushstrokes of thin clouds pattern and edge the sky. Hillocks spotted in tufts of moss and plaited long grass rise up around me. There is no even ground anywhere – it is the remains of a once boiling volcanic broth, now petrified earth, pulling down the gravity of the surrounding hills. I grasp for the right words to describe the summits to the right of me. They are too small to be mountains; too irregular to be hills. They are like moon craters whose pits and declivities are packed with dirty, mottled snow. Their banks are steep and threatened daily by the corrosive powers of the wind.
This landscape is not dead, it is alive. It reminds me of Nan Hudson’s Cairngorms.
The road continues.
833 words a day 