Iceland again,
and the dark, white light of November.
Frost scratches at the path.
On the balcony,
a screen against my neighbour's railing
wakes me
until I wedge it still.
In the dark, the wind is like homesickness,
callow, a first trip away.
But now, in the slim streets of daylight,
something to push against.
Like Iceland again,
pushed into the Atlantic,
and still taking its first steps out of the sea.
