Aegina, in summer...
Amid the grove where priestesses
conducted Doric rites,
her temple shimmers - apparition
glimpsed through venerable pines;
the pediments where veinless marble
filtered the unblemished light -
figures gleaming white on paint
intense as rubies, sapphire-bright -
have gone, and stone cries out
to stone across an architrave of sky.
Somewhere in the arid heat of noon
a peacock shrills. Metal-edged cicada
call drills deep, to silent oracles.
We wait for evening, for the wells to fill.
Temple of Aphaia
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103071700100
Свидетельство о публикации №103071700100
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