Village King

there’s a corner of my deck
still boasts the sun at two o’clock
where I sit and watch the people down below

and behind them on the harbour
laden boats are cutting water
bringing curios from the land of ice and snow

I imagine I am king
with a sceptre fit to sting
believing no one doubts a single word I say

of secret stitches in the curtain
all my subjects know for certain
they’ll be anchors for the longboats in the bay

all my streets of broken mirrors
scare the village superstitious
I have bandits camping on the edge of town

through a window made of guilt
admire the treasures in the silt
and later touch the broken magic golden crown