Grey-haired Ketil heard the murmur,
Heard the whispers of his neighbours,
But said nothing, thought in silence,
And did not lead out his servants.

One day Ketil, at the feast-board
Spoke to Thorstein sitting by him
At this time the fair-haired Thorstein
Eighteen years had lived in Romsdal.

‘These days young men choose the home-hearth
Where they sit in idle feasting,
Meat and ale are all they dream of
Never honour’s daring exploits.

Greta stopped popping jellybeans into her mouth and sat up straight. She chewed her mouthful of candy the rest of the way and swallowed before looking her friend square in the eye. "Jules... what do you mean by 'complete'?"
Jules sighed quietly and reached for another handful of popcorn before replying. "Well, I mean exactly that: complete. I have a full life, Greta; especially now. I don't feel like my days are lacking just because I'm not in a relationship. I mean, I have occasional days where I feel a little lonely. Don't we all? But for the most part I'm content. Complete."

From an old story.

Romsdalen is the name of a valley in western Norway through which the Rauma river runs until it reaches Romsdalsfjord.

Romsdal
For my Grandma Lee Love, to whom I read it night by night when I wrote it.

Where the fjord in grey cliff’s shadow
Deep and cold goes to the ocean,
Once there lived a man in Romsdal,
Old, and rich, and ugly Ketil.

War-days were long past for Ketil,
Farming in the peaceful valley,
So he brought Mjoll as his bride there,
Anar Bowbender’s lovely daughter.

I stopped at the very edge of the forest and slowly extended a hand towards the nearest tree. Its skin was strange—chunky, jagged, and craggy. I had never been close enough to one to see it in detail, so I was unprepared for such a texture. Fruit trees were confined within carefully secured orchards, and the few varieties of small, ornamental flowering trees—little more than bushes, really—that were allowed inside the Clearings all had skin that was more or less smooth with only an occasional bump in it.

Little child, gazing by,
Hope is light, way up high.
Watch the stars fade and grow,
Waning fear, waxing hope.

Little child, lulling eyes,
Hope is here, no disguise.
Watch the moon, smiling down,
Sleeping then, guarding now.

Little child, wond’rous face,
Hope is calm, noise disgraced.
Watch the sky, standing still,
Joyful hush, soundless thrill.

Little child, gather blue,
Hope is perfect, hope is you.

For many days this hurt has grown,
My conscience weighs with guilt that’s known
To self alone; a sense of right
Bestows itself upon my plight.

My right to comfort stands no more,
I forfeit it to stop this war,
To kneel before my enemy
In sorrow and humility.

I risk the cost, my cause is just,
And in her mercy blindly trust;
For this, I must forsake my pride
That selfishness might be denied.

She didn’t want to be loved,
At least,
Not anymore.
So she refused to love.

Maybe not loving
Would turn him away,
At least,
She thought.

She screamed.
He cried.

He didn’t let go.

She yelled,
He whispered,
And all I want to know
Is what he said.

She never came
Downstairs, ever.
She would
Not even try

To fake a smile.
Everything was
Gone in her.

Others, it seemed,
Fled from disaster
Being their friendship
And left her defenseless

Karak stared at the image on the screen. The two human boys were standing on the edge of the crater. One had dark brown hair, the other had blond. They watched the probe in the center, which throbbed with a dull green light.
“The specimens are close enough to scan, Supreme Senator.” Alixza said. “Shall I commence?”

Karak stared at the image on the screen. The two human boys were standing on the edge of the crater. One had dark brown hair, the other had blond. They watched the probe in the center, which throbbed with a dull green light.
“The specimens are close enough to scan, Supreme Senator.” Alixza said. “Shall I commence?”

March Night

Last night as I went through the gate
From the churchyard, walking home,
Sweet fragrance met me in the dark,
From a new, and unseen bloom.

I knew it told of coming spring’s
Sweet successive waves of flowers;
The first note in the overture
Of pageant, seen and loved before.

~

On First Paddling into Chapman Landing

All at once, all was still.
The water smooth, reflecting,
Silkily rolled beneath my paddle
As we came to Chapman landing.