Seige Ll Poem by Morgan Michaels

On the great, Marquinia table, inlaid pink and orange, he tossed the mockery bearing the English queen's seal with its manifold stamps and fancy ribbons.
'Thanks. Thanks, thanks. Much indebted... Thanks for...thanks...thanks, thanks...etc.'
-Of course. Don't mention it.
The envoys, who delivered the parchment but couldn't read it, were feasting on plaice and drinking Sicilian wine in the hall, below.
But the sea was bristling with ships, sailing placidly to Genoa, Marseilles, and faraway Valencia, bearing wheat and spices from the Levant and slaves to London.

'Good riddance. And the vile language! Barbaric.

Well, there was lots to do. Old horrors fade before fresh triumphs.
Across the harbor the new city was rising fast. He, himself, laid the first stone. Would he live to see it done?
He doubted it. Not the way he felt. But, God willing, he would.
On the mantel the clock chimed six. Along the peninsula, from every little belfrey, swung a bell on its rung. Soon there were many, a chorus. They rang a whole minute, then ceased.
Old Valette liked the sound of the bells. He would have a little dinner, then go to bed.
'And, Oliver-'
'Yes, sir? '
'Go to bed.'