
I have two friends who
are each possessed of vivid
imaginations –
graces poetic
souls are thankful for as they
wrestle with human
vicissitudes and
worry about their own place
in the scheme of things –
and both ask me to
consider ‘am I a good
goose?’ as I head home
to Caerlaverock
and I honk and snort at it
while also intrigued:
‘am I a good goose?’ –
in high flight above earth in
arrow formation
that never questions
my worth – and I focus hard
but am no scholar
and ‘good?’ gives way to
a beautiful sunset and
the peace that exists
in being simple
and plain goose-like amidst a
world full of other