Fondly, the Goddess directs her focus
to Ithica's lambent littoral where
white rock-rose, lily, acanthus, crocus*
sway and perfume the enraptured air.
Provisions assured, all needed pledged,
Penelope strolls, light in soul, lulled in care.
Her mind's ship is spry, square-sailed and eye-etched
but sea yields nothing - the harbour lies bare.
'Fear not, my favourite, all is well. Look...'
she lifts pleasing arms, cone-curls fingers '...there.'
A foraging dove close by a bright brook -
'What can this mean?' Penelope despairs.
Though Hope seems foundered, the Goddess, content
warmly addresses the white miscreant.
*All flower July-August if Wikipedia is to be believed ;))
YOU ARE READING
Dragonish
PoetryPART 1: Seven poems that explore love. The sated wind doodles mischievously no longer the ravening raptor loosed that scratched sharp claws to my unfettered glee. Now are you temperate, husky, obtuse. PART 2: Follows the tale of a persecuted dragon...
