Sedge

Gabriel Dunsmith
Sep 2, 2018 · 1 min read

In the flatlands, the path leads out into sunburnt grass and swiftly disappears. The rustle and hush is why we are here — witness to the quietest of songs which arise lantern-like from the silence. Even if we close our eyes, we still sense the place’s rhythm. We long to be called to that spot where the land ripples like water, where wind is rendered visible in currents and oxbows and undertows.

The city rises on the hillside. But we are in a thicker realm: birds plunge into the shadows, blades braid the surface and roots twine below. The knocking of footsteps falls in line with the beating of geese wings. Each impact fades into the muffling dome.

The bridge creaks underfoot. The path is narrow: greenery courts your skin. In the middle, you could turn all around and see only marsh, living as the ducks do in a mirage of golden tassles. But a whisper — if only a soft one — calls you on, so that you flow like a stream through this burled hinterland and out the other side.

Nætur: Dispatches from Iceland

People, place and ephemera in the Far North.

Gabriel Dunsmith

Written by

Exploring the human relationship to place in Reykjavík, Iceland.

Nætur: Dispatches from Iceland

People, place and ephemera in the Far North.

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