Read a poem by another poet written
on the same day:

This room—glimmer of leaded
Tudor windows overlooking grass
and gravel paths—is a stranger
now, despite her discipline, each
of the three sons loved to walk the
winter months by; as you see,
in the summertime the place
is squarely overcome by tourists
from all God's countries ...

It all seems so foreign today
part of me yet no part more,
an estate I have left for another,
the remote possibility of hunting
a catch for the evening kitchen;
it is after all a long time hence.
Yet in my dreams it assails me
and presents all its guidebook views
as if an agent would persuade me ...

They say a medieval owner,
one of my distant forefathers,
was slain quite young in Ireland,
in the battle to take a castle
that lay along the southern coast.
His gravestone is in the churchyard
yet his body was never returned
and the story goes, in a high wind,
that he's struggling to get home ...

Vienna