Delos
You touch their elongated flanks
and limbs where grasses flex in wind,
your fingers gentle as a child’s,
face illumined from within;
embrace emaciated necks,
kiss wind-scourged brows and sightless eyes,
as, watching with suspended breath,
I visualise their goddess rise
from crimson shards of poppy-fields,
winged lions in flight across chill skies
above the peacock seas that fan
the shrine of Leto’s twins…
Later, naked, you perspire
clear drops of marble, liquefied,
that tremble on my flanks and skin
held hostage to your hands and eyes,
as evening’s outriders close in,
draw cordons round white, high facades
and cast long shadows on the wall
like rampant lions…
Touching the Lions
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103013000510
Свидетельство о публикации №103013000510
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