"Then saith one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, Simon's son, which should betray him, Why was not this ointment sold for three hundred pence, and given to the poor?" ~ John 12, King James Bible

A lock without his key. Closed at the top where Iron feeds on iron. Rain against the tavern's Threshold - memory's.

Gulls shrieking over cargo Freighters, and this esplanade, Anointed by seawater, rain, Leading from that little vortex In the middle of the lock,

Waiting for her Judas key To turn, and turn again.