John wakes up in Iceland
Writing that the people are smiling at him
And that it’s Christmas.
He says the ground is a sheet of ice
And there isn’t a tree in sight;
That the sky is wild with stars
And it’s thirteen degrees below.
He says the sun rises at eleven, in the south,
Lolls on its horizon-bed of pink and red,
And in three hours falls back again, exhausted.
The long twilight glows.
A slow curtain of cold fire swings
Across the harbour ice.
John dances in his new boots
The waltz of the Aurora Borealis.
He kneels at the feet of the North Atlantic,
Humming to himself and quoting
Prophets of the Sixties, reaching
For the deep globe of heaven as if to hold
Some exotic potted plant between his hands.
John wakes up in Iceland
Writing that the people are smiling at him
And that it’s Christmas.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 4:32 PM UTC
John wakes up in Iceland
Writing that the people are smiling at him
And that it’s Christmas.
He says the ground is a sheet of ice
And there isn’t a tree in sight;
That the sky is wild with stars
And it’s thirteen degrees below.
He says the sun rises at eleven, in the south,
Lolls on its horizon-bed of pink and red,
And in three hours falls back again, exhausted.
The long twilight glows.
A slow curtain of cold fire swings
Across the harbour ice.
John dances in his new boots
The waltz of the Aurora Borealis.
He kneels at the feet of the North Atlantic,
Humming to himself and quoting
Prophets of the Sixties, reaching
For the deep globe of heaven as if to hold
Some exotic potted plant between his hands.
John wakes up in Iceland
Writing that the people are smiling at him
And that it’s Christmas.
I record some of my poems and attach videos to the recordings. Here's a YouTube link to this one's video: https://tinyurl.com/4ru99wkt
