Rock Island

Leaving behind the slap
of plump biting flies
drone of a lighthouse docent
I enter the forest primeval
of ferns and shadows
split-opened tree trunks
their scalloped lichens.

On this island
of New Icelandia
the runes are etched
in virgin wood repeating
the lore of a lost world.

Now as before
the water slaps shimmery
in the stone pressed cove.