Grótta

gulls wheel above, the sea broken into trinkets of wind. sun turns liquid in a bowl of haze and everywhere grass quivers. tide hovers between black sand and porous igneous boulder stones. across the flood, the lighthouse sighs relief and grows taller in its solitude.

wake and squint against the day’s cold colour. walk the hall of steps, wash your flowing hands in the sink, think about nothing.

two bobbing geese fall into the shadow of south-born cloud. a jogger lines the path with intention, execution, satisfaction, again. dandelions have all pinched their faces into lemon sour, bitter punch. ghosts of drying fish flutter on þurrkhjallur. a frisbee pops the wind. sailboat (out of sight now). sun glint recedes into horizon, mesmerized: a clock watching its face in the mirror, ticking backwards.

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