Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #5                         Page 23
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I don’t know about September
at the edge of the Gullfloss
I hear the last syllable as an echo
of the crashing glacier water
mixed with the sound of rain
huddled in my heavy clothes
for the long walk back

in May at the place of the law speaker
Thingvellir the place of truth
is a lonely place to stand
a rock overlooking
a rift in the earth
weeks before I begin my treatment

looking up the valley
the fault is what
a long zipper-like scar
the boundaries of stark black basalt
pulling apart sinking slowly
some day the icy sea

  Gregg Weatherby