She walks the land on well feathered paths.
Her stride is long and bold.
Her journey wide eyed and slow.
Yes, she is a mother - of children and invention.
Takes them where ever she roams.
Along the way she is not just seen,
people take notice of Victoria Neale.
Because the true Nomad is rare and on the wane.
She walks between seasons
tracing the arc of the sun
where open sky invites all those who dare.
Where those who dare skip like stones on a marble pond.
She does not follow the migration.
the wake in the prairie grass is her own.
When the sky closes in, the feathers trampled stiff, the marble worn away
Victoria Neale the Nomad
will go beyond the hills time has made
and rest in the shade of grace.
(see Freya Stark)