Moon Country: Further Reports From Iceland (with Simon Armitage)
Faber UK, 1996
A Low God on Krafla
A god will prick the bellies of the clouds
To see what happens, one will set the fire
To melt the place, he knows that happens, one
Will make a fool of blood near where we come from,
But one will make a beeline for Krafla.
Rip bits off and smell them, put them back.
Look it’s easy. Crock bits off, they’re rotten.
Crumble them, how stuck they are, how broken.
How weird and cheap the earth got at Krafla.
Make a wish on smoke, nobody does that.
This is really ugly. You waltz up
And say it has a kind of grandeur. I know
That’s frankly puffinshit. This thing is Krafla.
This soil has never seen us and it’s screaming.
Refugee would be the least crap image.
Whatever unreported war threw up this,
Here it is, terranean on Krafla,
Black, fuming, cracking, photogenic, shitey
Grey souvenir for iffy middle children.
Pocket it, think better of it, bin it.
The lowest god you get is king of Krafla.
Go yellow at his stink. He won’t show you
His fabulous lagoons so near at hand, though,
And green as heaven. Them you have to look for.
He’s not as proud of what was no trouble.
