A pool of water, crystal clear and shimmering, beneath the light of

an ancient moon. The water's cold tranquillity, majestic and

refined in stillness and in clime, disturbed in brief by the passage

of a lone vessel; the boat in carriage of the solitary one; the

cloaked youth of sad temper and sorry virtue.



In time, and not before time, beneath the overhang of tired

branches, the vessel gains the embankment, the youth alighting on

the shore. He wraps the cloak for warmth against the asperity of

the night, and upon his gloved wrist the falcon waits until the light

of dawn reveals that which is unseen, of the landscape of the land.



As the boat moves off unnoticed, beneath a tree he reclines to lie

and I know this story well, as one should, of he that is I.