Now with herself and her fame I see her in the field.
Brushing, brushing winter’s coat from off the horse Icelandic.
Undrun in his herd of three plus she—so symbiant the scene.
As a close kin’s comfort, kindly is her clan to keep.
Contented with the small stout-hearted beasts,
yet longing for the days she loved, tending to her geese.
Dreaming of the sun that shone upon the yard
that cast a shadow of a tree, across the scrap and scrabble ****.
There she wondered of her time grown upon “The Seed”.
Cool fresh morning shade and light
stirs the nesting bird’s warm chest
to shift upon the precious nest.
The clutch awaits the day. Safe shells to life give way
Just as Undrun will run no more upon Icelandic shores,
the goslings have long gone, leaving her forevermore.