In the windows of sand
in death
in a chalk-drawn circle
in castle walls
your liquid name, beloved,
was an old journey,
a song
that comes with the wind to my house in winter.
It was the lantern of the orchards
long dimmed by the tide.
It returned
as a moon above the banks of death
and in its waning reflected
lights from the islands.
They remain at the bottom of the river
to celebrate a feast for my sorrow by the walls
of Mary Magdalene's home.
It was my face
and my stone castle.