The Castle

A Sonnet

You had finished Notre Dame de Paris
and it fast became your favorite novel,
at the feet of the gypsy you grovelled
as twelve years watered the creek so sweetly.
Wilson’s castle became your cathedral,
a neighbor hood boy was your deaf cyclops,
shouted “Sanctuary!” from tower tops,
gaily swinging from the gargoyled steeple.
My darling skeleton in my closet,
a timeless work of heart breaking beauty
kneeled at your feet forever in duty,
architecting holy scrolls of gnostics. 
Our short time together was not so brief
that I shan’t envy Gudule in her grief.