dusty yellow day tilts through the rectangular window frame
great halls out below
and the country beyond?
not Illyria, Macedon or Thrace
just a hill, in an English city
from the memory of a long-dead, flaxen haired man
who paddled languidly to an anchored carrack
and paused by the hull to quip
'such gentle reeds that sway'
and then, at this notion
set sail for the wide and interminable ocean.