Everyday Poetry

We're in the Midlands at a fishing festival.  At least, my husband is at the festival. I'm enjoying the warmth of late summer, reading, writing, sharing poems.   The wind chases across the surface of the lake, Dances through the forgiving willows' branches, Lifts the corner of my page, Steals the warmth from my skin.  The wind is a fractious child, Demanding full attention Before moving on to the next thing.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Our final stop on the Iceland cruise was Lerwick in the Shetland Isles.  I was keen to explore these islands, made familiar from watching the TV series Shetland, and took the obligatory photo of the house where Jimmy Perez lives. But sadly, Douglas Henshall was nowhere to be seen.   Shetland I thank this old fisherman's family For setting a memorial bench at Eshaness, Where I rest, whipped by a wind Screaming fresh off the Atlantic, Watching kittiwakes ride its currents Above iron-stained sea stacks, And lulled by the music of the sea.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

I loved the sparse emptiness of the Icelandic landscape, its dramatic but somehow understated beauty. Iceland Cottongrass blows in the wind that scours The flatlands edging the coast.  Sheer basalt cliffs rear, black on green, Glacier melt rivers leap abruptly in their fall, A grey asphalt ribbon unwinds through town Past metal-roofed houses hunkered low, Turning their backs to the drama, Towards the sustaining sea.   © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

On our Icelandic holiday we visited the Langjokull glacier, and actually got the chance to walk on the ice.  It's 200 metres thick, but last winter didn't bring the usual snow and there are concerns about climate change shrinking it.  Ice Melt Through vast flatlands of moss-covered lava, Past the mountains of Mordor, The monster truck trundles onto black-flecked ice;  No pristine alpine glacier, this, Its surface laced with volcanic ash, Blackened like city sludge.  Tentative, crampon-fitted,  We step onto the glistening ice, Stamping our spikes into the honeycomb, The brave striding off like Arctic explorers, Cowards keeping close to the truck.  Striations crisscross the ice into a checkerboard, Carving deep moulins, sinkholes, tunnels, And slowly the glacier flows,  Grinding the rock far below, As we are warmed by the sun and hot chocolate.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

I always want to go on a whale watching trip whenever I get the chance,  and this trip off the North Coast of Iceland did not disappoint.  A comment from a crew member stuck with me: You watch the whale, but it also watches you.   Whale watching The joy is in the anticipation, The hope that this time they will come to us: That's what we tell ourselves.  But when the dolphins arrive,  Mob-handed, with their toothy smiles, Enthusiastic clicks and squeaks,  Racing in the bow wave, leaping,  Diving under the boat, giving us all a front row seat,  Performing for the hell of it, We know the joy is in the encounter,  The exhilarating meeting of a species So familiar, so unknown. The fleeting sighting of minke whales, Distant, black shapes, aloof, stand-offish, Is almost an anti-climax.  Almost.   © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

One of the places visitors to Iceland are encouraged to visit is the Gullfoss waterfall,  and no wonder.  It's a magnificent two tier fall of foaming glacier meltwater, as breathtaking as Niagra or Victoria Falls, despite its smaller size.   Gullfoss How to explain our love affair with waterfalls?  With the rush and bluster, the fuss of the fall,  The draw of the cliff edge, The milky foam, the mist that drifts Above the sculpting water.  We flock in droves to view the spume, To find the rainbow's arc,  To capture the uncapturable, To make the constant flow stand still.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.