Gudron graced many a viking's visions,
like a Helen or a Guenevere.
But no ray of light could be shone
on her four disturbing dreams.

Until one day a wise kinsman called,
a dream interpreter, who told her
that she would outlast four husbands.
His foretelling came to pass.

But she never wed the man she loved.
He set sail. Gudron remained.
Iceland's first christian nun.

Our roaming ponies lead me to see
the fishing boats off Scalloway,
hustling, bustling activity,
trawling treasures from Norway.

Watching Shetland's secret heroes,
shipping out their weaponry. Mum says,
'small arrows against Germany.
Hush! Don't tell, may Norway's hopes fare well.'

I am a tree - old and knarled.
I shall open my arms,
whisper to my seedlings
just how things might be.

There's that feeling again,
a pressure to return.
It could never be the same,
next time no longer unique.
I'd need something new from it.
For now, I'm waking from
the author's dream.

Unknown soldiers buried under headstones
- not known at this address.
Whetstones to sharpen our sympathies
for that brave, bare-***** generation.

Their photos fade at home. No resting
places document their faces.
Young innocents abroad in Fance
soon aged waiting for their deliverance.

A patch of sunlight
like a slow spotlight
searches the table-top
for stuff to browse.

It warms my clenched hand,
cold-blooded creature,
charms my temper's inner,
all too selfish strand.

Salt waves breaking on the seashore.
Their sound waves shaking our eardrums,
as we sat listening to his tales.
Even wise Canute couldn't hold back
the surging tides of myth.

We were beachcombers, picking up
the flotsam and jetsam of stories,
not history, his stories,
tutorials in delights and dangers.

We've since learned
his stories are truths.
They are myths
that helped us muddle through.