Riggish

 

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.