this is the last golden moon that I will see, I should think
the only and the last           so I tiptoe down to Jericho

and watch them wash the artichoke hearts in brine

(I wonder if I could cure my own heart in that fashion)

and the man in the cloth cap gives me a coffee from the machine


I walk back in the weak light of that shadow hour,
When all is still and the doves are cooing in their nests
the moon winks down on me. Don't do it, sister


I am the only and the last    she says           for there is no moonlight in the sepulchre


and in my blue silk shawl, my pale veined hands            that moonstone ring like a fossilised tear

I can't leave myself yet. My mother

in her bed, sleeping soundly, and the river glittering through the bullrushes

this is not my only day, nor my last.