Yana (repeat of one mistakenly lost)

In the white washed ruins, relaimed by the sea, she shows you an heirloom, a common enough gain, the cross of Saint Anthony, swings gently on its chain, no impending sense of doom, relates to the monastey , no radios play empty tunes, the doctor's sad face, is not as it should be, mama has gone down late, those shining hooves, we ran in summer lanes, will be as nothing soon, her laughter gentle as rain, rouses us from weary sleep, she'll visit us again, loss brings no certainty.