Athens
Aloes spread stark tentacles,
fleshy, robust, primitive, their tenure
in archaic venues unchallenged,
definitive. Vandals gouge graffiti
on the tough jade surfaces of leaves,
as transients in ancient times once left
their names on marble shrines.
We left no scars upon that hill,
no signs of walks through stunted pines
that smelled of frankincense,
past chapels where thin yellow
tapers burned. In early morning light
we'd pause in homage to Athena's temple,
grateful that such minds conspired
to dream perfection and to build.
Hill of the Nymphs
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103032300038
Свидетельство о публикации №103032300038
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