(An old poem just found.)
I came to the
Westfjords to work harder, get in shape, save money;
just the usual
things – except, perhaps, to visit Gísli Súrsson’s murder site –
but I didn’t
think I’d be shepherding
with men in ski
pants and fishermen’s jumpers.
One of them is
five hundred metres up the side of Arnardalur, Eagle Dale,
with three white
dots who remember summer’s freedom
but still run themselves into the farmer’s yard,
where we, the chasers, meet
later for legs of lamb with rhubarb jam.
“Hold the line,” yells a man, “and keep close to the river,
while I take the
small rise on the other side”;
the river is the
only clarity in a valley of bog, fog, and blueberries,
the company of
sheep still two hundred metres away.
But one old
dear, apart from the others on a spit of stones,
looking like a
torn pillow on cheap barbecue legs,
stamps me to be
gone, to leave the winter to herself alone,
spare her my
good will.
I huff, yelp,
and whoosh in reply, step closer, jump, walk around,
I look friendly
and jolly and hold my ground,
I tell her that
the others have gone ahead; she kicks,
no, yes, no,
come on!
(2004)
