úða
At Gullfoss I walk along an ash path
with rope either side telling me
in a language I don’t understand
and can’t pronounce
to keep off the rocks.
Who needs words anyway;
rope has its own universal language.
A waterfall in Iceland. Famous.
Saved from commercial hydro-power
By one woman, it’s said.
I hear before I see, feel
before I hear.
What I feel is gentle. A moist
bloom on my face, the backs
of my chilled hands.
What I hear is a low roar,
a rumble, a surging.
What I see deceives
the gentleness. A force of twice
as much hydrogen as oxygen
compounding to billow
the chasm they’ve pounded
over centuries.
I stand in awe, trying to let
my brain process the
aberration of my senses;
how dare the feel of the úða
betray hearing and sight.
Yet how could the spate of ear
and eye yield not spite
but samúð.
úða ( pronounced oother, as in smoother) is Icelandic for spray,
and samúð (pronounced samoothe) for gentle compassion