PRIME MERIDIAN

The sudden spring at Skálholt

sets an arrow in the sky,

as clear a sign to Iceland’s tribes

as to the homesick swans,

that frozen feuds are melting now.

The stilled disputes of states at war

that, once again unsheaved,

will gouge a rift where east meets west,

and hemisphere scrapes hemisphere.

Except the chieftains take the route,

mapped by the migrant birds,

to where the continents

contend in violent moot.

Bring human conflicts here

to Þingvellir,

and let the continental drift

drown out the roar of human threats,

in tumbling torrents of its own.

The Gulfoss Falls baptized the tribes,

and carved from basalt rock

an effervescent font,

that grinds the grandeur from my sin,

upon the millstone of the rock.

This is the Prime Meridian,

where I and latitude alike are nought,

Alpha neighbours Omega.

Destruction and Creation kiss,

and Shiva partners Brahma in the dance.