wbrogers is a poet.

Horður’s Saga

From Brekkukot eastward

to Horður’s blanched pasture–

feel grit beneath nails 

matted manes and horned sheep

Westward to Floáhreppur

below Hánnes’ roofbeams,

rest on roots packed together

a hearth carved from turf.

Hánnes and Horður

their fathers before them

and Horðursson after

born of barley and brauð:

The Sagas are living 

in Horður’s tin stable

atop Hánnes’ wood table

not as spines on a shelf.

Winter yields summer

plows turn the soil

chisel hews timber

herring dries in the shack

Farmers cut markings

on the spring lamb’s ear;

shepherds trace scars 

of lineage and lore.

Tool and hand become one

as fingers mend fences

cracked cuticles blacken

and palms pummel dirt.

Through movement and music

from seasons and soil

mankind makes meaning

and grows strong from the land–

The Sagas are living

in Hánnes and Horður

their fathers before them

and Horðursson after…

Gráta Gráta (Cry Cry)

cry cry in nightmare sky–

where do pink-toed goslings fly?

now submerged in waters high

and sold for half-a-lie

high-ho and smelt-a-way

hills have turned the river gray

where will little children play

as gold leads us astray?