It was a day like this, in March; smiling blue sky, cheering wind, chill and brisk
A day like this, on the Charles
It was a good day for sailing, hiking out side by side, racing upwind βtil feathers by the bridge rocked us like babes, laughing verses of Rimbaud lamenting Milton and the Arch-Fiend
We sailed circles round the eights sculling their way to Henley; we called them slaves and gestured like Merry Pranksters
We tacked and jibed, glided downwind, and on a broad reach, we saw Prufrock standing on shore, downcast, as mermaids slipped on board and sang with us: