There it lay. Dead. Who knows for how long? Likely, it would be swept out again at the next change of tide; but perhaps, by some miracle of fate, it would remain there until the mighty Katla roared once again, and the rushing waters of Myrdalsjökull hurled it back out into the frigid waves of the North Atlantic. It is even possible, should Surtr cast a reminder to Freyr of her impending doom, that a refugee might spy it, from the steps of the church, swirling through the bay along with all the other remnants of the humble southern village.
In truth, it is probably long gone by now, but this photo remains, timeless, still, and unwavering—a reminder of forgotten tales, the forces of the gods, and the power of nature.
A Poet’s Qualm 