On a New Year's Day in Reykjavik
I stood at the very top of that old city,
intending to visit the Cathedral there.

All at once, there it was. And it was in charge.

A gust of wind so strong that it grabbed and
  slid me, speeding across several metres of ice,
only to slam, face first, into the broad chest
of a resident British Embassy staffer.

Genially, he smiled down and introduced
himself with gentlemanly aplomb.
No wonder they had an empire. At least for a while.

Oh, that wind! Ever seen snow moving horizontally?
Or felt a hole being drilled, in one ear, almost out the other?

Deep in the ancient countryside, on the way to the sea,
is a lonely valley, held captive by the power of a brutal
Gigantic troll. There, this wind has its greatest rival.

Even if you can't see them, just tell me you don't feel them...

In Reykholt now, that bullying wind buffets a cozy house,
but to no avail, for angels watch over a newborn baby girl.

Her mother, just a girl when we first met,  
now sings tenderly to her own new daughter.
Both are princesses of this beautiful island country.

Finding kindness, that tough old wind has sent
Halldora's lullaby across the open ocean,
  over wide blue skies, and onto this snowy prairie
where I hear it and cradle it softly, and so gently, to my heart.