I sailed all the way to Port Chastity,
where the rigging disrobed in the sound;
my seagulls on mastheads look shoreward,
and the waves throb possessively round.
I am back in Chastity Castle,
drawbridge up and portcullis down;
my ravens on turrets are watching,
and the clouds swirl possessively round.
At night, the fingers of fir trees drip
– cloak the moon in priestly awning;
and woodcocks glimpsing garish dawn
rode home, as if I were calling.