may suppose he has been here. There is
one word, and so many millennia.
We must suppose it. Nothing
will free the hung jury of our reason,
to ten, to a hundred, a thousand—
the shadow of a gull's wing on the water,
the slow breaking of the sea.
is the village at the
tip of the
© Godfrey Rust 1985, email@example.com. See here for permissions.