On all that lonely island
‘Twas not the trees nor castle claimed my gaze
Nor bird-filled fields, nor glistening hills
Nor broken ruins, sunlit days
In the castle was a hall
And down the hall, a room
And in the room a statue
It was there I cried, “By whom
Was this art made to be?”
I’d scoured that island long and found
No trace of man, no pottery
No prints, no bones
Just ancient homes of weathered stones
Millennia empty
No stained glass or tapestries
Just drafty, solid solitude
Unimbued
Save one flight of stairs: there I was
Face to face with a lovingly chiseled, unforgettable form
If it had eyes, I looked into them
There, provoked, enamored, afraid
I mended there a night or two
Then had be on my way
For all the time I spent ashore
I hoped for more to say
But curse of curses, I knew nothing
Surely, you would think,
That room, at least, would stay
Within me vivid and concrete
But nay
Though I can tell you where I walked
The meaning of that den is lost
I would give my breath to the castle’s builder for the sculpture alone
I would return there to bleed out and paint with red the lovely stone
But I do not know what was depicted—
Woman, tomb or throne