There is the Arctic Tern.
There is the Red-necked Phalarope.
There is the Puffin.
There is the Icefield.
There is the Lava.
There is the Bar-tailed Godwit.
There are volcanic beaches.
There are volcanic springs.
There are all these things.
This is Iceland.
The bus it takes us
For a ride,
A pair of poets
Side by side.
On the bus
We’re on the look-out.
Our objective:
Get a book out.
Whatever words
We may compile,
This other world
Is worth the while.
It is nineteen thirty-six:
Harmoniums and candle wicks.
Harmoniums
And many horses.
Here they don’t employ
Armed forces.
Here’s an island, very new
I’m teaching folk the Clerihew.
Here’s the bus,
There’s morasses;
It’s a shame they can’t do bus passes here
Rather than just these single tickets all the time.
Keep the lines like lava, flowing.
Louis helps me
Keep it going.
I’ll be glacier,
You be movement.
I’m a home
And you’re improvement.
Cigarettes abandon packets
They’re all loose inside my pocket.
Our hotel, I mustn’t knock it;
I don’t mean to be a moaner
I just think that six krona a night’s a bit steep.
Here is much poetic thought:
“Art is long and life is short”.
Sat at night-time
Playing rummy,
Louis always wins.
He’s jammy.
There’s a geyser,
We’re agog.
At the moment,
Louis’ doing dialogue.
We’ve local proverbs, travel journals
Hopefully we’ve got the kernel of the book
If not the cover.
“What’s that over there, Louis?
A plover, is it?”
The boy behind is travel sick
Far from home in Rejkjavik.
Four new Belgians
Board our bus.
This is Iceland
This is us.
Þetta er island
Þetta er okkur.
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