Poetry

A Strange Thing

It was into autumn in God’s year 1588 and I swear I never saw stranger. We cut south from Germany down the North Sea, gathering sky, following wind aiming for trade in England while fewer ships are out as the winter comes on. Shouts from the lookout but not a sail anywhere. “In the water!” he yells down, and soon from the rail we can spy the sea black with dots, big things, moving things. This is an uneasy omen and we fall quiet and stare trying to make out the shapes and the wind takes us on, nearer and…

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