For the dverse prompt—my sign, my name, my house.
Not all place names go back to the Romans, or the Celts with their spirits of place. History is a stream, un long fleuve tranquille, it delves banks and builds ramparts, and it drops names here and there wherever someone needs one. A place name by the roadside stands proudly, arbitrary spelling because farmers didn’t go to school much. But someone had heard of a Mogul emperor and gave his name to a small farm. Perhaps a daughter, who read novels or poetry, an exotic name that caught her fancy. Her father, to indulge her, in his slow, clumsy hand wrote it as she said it, onto the title deeds, and claimed a bit of history for his own.
Home in the meadows,
still as stone in the stream,
basks in ancient splendour.