Reynisfjara

by Kevin McGowan

i zig-zag my way to basalt refuge
in a tug-of-war between my feeble
strawman husk and the north atlantic’s
vacuuming suck, a sonic blitzkrieg
of white noise fury, dragged inch-by-inch
toward the frothing snake-heap of waves

along this beach at the end of the world
where black sand gathers like ashes
or midnight bone meal from mythic
titans, the lashed pink pulp of my face
is just the beginning as i remind myself

people have died here and will again
but how magnificent all the same
such is the quest to experience beauty:
we are sometimes compelled to play
the part of knight-errant venturing
into the den of some fabled wyvern