This poem was inspired by prompts from cimeara and these photos.
Older Princes Still
At Namafjall Hverir, the world is thin
And cracked in places. You could fall right in.
The fumaroles breathe reeking clouds of steam
Like dragons snoring vapors as they dream.
The mud pots bubble briskly by the flue.
No witches tend this eerie, earthen brew.
No flowers bloom upon this barren field
But sulphur’s yellow badge adorns the shield.
The fairytales are old, but older still
Are stone and steam, the princes of this hill.