Flying north west to Reykjavik we kept pace

with the sunset – its reds, its oranges,

its prism of blues – but landed in darkness.

We were coached to our hotel past concrete

apartments, advertisement hoardings,

and neon lit diners that could have been

the outskirts of any large developing town.

 

Iceland has the landmass of Ireland,

the population of Coventry,

most of whom live in Reykjavik –

a calm, civic, prosperous, caring place

with its galleries, museums, libraries,

concert hall, university, and

hot water pumped from the geysers inland.

Nevertheless, surrounded by volcanoes,

we felt close to some northernmost frontier.

 

Its centre has the charm of San Francisco’s

North Beach, Fisherman’s Wharf, Pier 39.

We walked downhill to the old harbour

past wooden houses, expensive shops,

elegant graffiti, and steep cross streets.

On the pavement by the public library

was a waterlogged paperback copy

of ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’.

 

Until the Celts and the Vikings came –

westering exiles, chancers, pilgrims;

seafarers and storytellers; thralls,

nobles, and the odd priest – the only mammal

was the arctic fox, here since the last ice age.

 

We left for the airport in daylight.

The landscape – deforested by all

the mammals except the fox – seemed tundra-like:

the rich, volcanic top soil exposed

against a backdrop of snowy mountains.

 

We flew along the southern coast eastwards.

When the city ends, there is only

the occasional homestead before the ocean

rolls below in sunlight, waters that might break

suddenly with imaginary whales

after we have passed – for we saw none

on our half-day excursion from Reykjavik

out into the North Atlantic’s gunmetal

grey spraying us, pitching us, bucking us.

Our tickets remain valid for future trips

forever until we see at least one

Blue, Humpback, Minke, Orcha or Sperm whale –

an honourable, optimistic deal.