Seized rumours placed her on a Narbonensis shore
long before brief sojourns took me southward
truth is it doesn’t really matter
she had slipped in garbs of red long before
the dawn of Paul was grounded in his Rabat
and like future lovers she had no call on me at all
then a trinity of de Grailly women took to bathe
each in turn lowered with their white shrouds into the
transforming water for each emerging Magdalena
rusted waters drained only for the story to be retold
their shrouds long gone new lovers stitch linen hems
for themselves to live in and enfold the myth
flickering the image into my blindness
bade me go and find those who paint anew
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