The odeion's fragmented shell perched high above the sea.
We waited there all afternoon to hear the wind,
but nothing stirred: a solitary bird, a wren
piped among dry lilac twigs; some goatbells chinked,
like stray notes from a xylophone;
cliffs reaffirmed the turning tide's eternal
tryst with gravity. We promised, in the muse's cochlea,
to honour poetry, to love as only poets love,
to leave each other free…
Milos
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103020200348
Свидетельство о публикации №103020200348
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