High up at the bottom of a bowl
Rimmed with ridges and cusps
Seeped through by blue rippling
Descending from ice-cap
A vast, steep-sided arena
Roaring with waterfalls
And fast-flowing river; Laced with low woodland
Filled with flowers
And rocky outcrops. I’ve never seen such a scene
Except in dreams
And imaginings of Lothlorien. A trail of enchantment
Moist, mossy and silvered with birch
Calling to continue
From rapture to rapture. Until a howl of foreboding
From a wolf
That turns out to be dog
Standing sentinel
But tethered beside the path
Warns to turn around
Before the ice is reached
Falling short
By a hundred or two metres
But never mind. The return seems longer than the coming
Even walking at the double
To carry clear of unknown trouble
Where wilderness strains at the leash
To make itself felt
Beyond the din
That begrudges mortal sin
For venturing so boldly
To invade its privacy.
[Inspired by a visit to a Norwegian glacier]
