Every day Audhumla goes back
to the salt block, savouring
the bite of salt
on her tongue, before
licking again.
Little by little, a body emerges
from the salt: tufts of hair,
the shell of an ear, the ridge
of eyebrow.
A face, a torso, arms,
hands, fingers.
One day, one last lick,
and there’s the figure of a man,
blank eyes staring
straight ahead
but seeing nothing.
She touches her mouth
to his and exhales,
filling his lungs
with breath,
his mouth with speech,
his mind with thought.
He awakes: Búri, the first,
who will be grandfather to Odin.
She moos a hello and he laughs,
scratches her muzzle, trails
his fingers over her rust-coloured coat
and her horns curving out
and up.
Búri takes his first steps
on shaking legs, his hand
resting on her back,
until she nudges his hip
with her nose.
She watches him walk alone
and returns to her salt,
a proud mother,
the first of creation.