The black beach

The statue leans forward,
towards the sea, arms by its side
but yearning for contact,

for reconciliation after the years
of net-cutting, rammed boats,
skippers playing Rule Britannia,


only ended when this newest
land threatened to close
the Nato base at Keflavik.

Moon rising in a purple dusk.
Waves sidle up on Vik’s black beach
as Katla shifts under its glacier.

The ash that darkens the sand
can feed the fields, make
the waters richer with fish.

Now Katla’s preparing to blow again,
to send clouds over Europe’s air routes.
Meanwhile the statue aches for embrace

across the waters, to forget the past.
Gazes towards the laid-up trawlers
of Hull, Grimsby, Fleetwood.