Hexameter

Hold, memory, a vision out of Greece: The west wind breathes a ripening breath As each pear, pendant and golden, brushes Another, where four tilled acres glisten Winter and summer: fig, olive, currant, And the heavy succulent pomegranate —Sunstruck for the plucker’s hand. All this a stranger sees, palm on lintel, Sees the stately women of the royal rooms Murmuring over linen, looms humming; Sees boys, on pedestals, shine torches Which fire the eyes of Alkinöos’s hounds. So much of heroism wondrously found (Like a glinting pebble in a child’s hand, Borne upward to imagination’s shallows), As I’d gaze at snow blanketing West End, Hearing the story my father burnished Over a month of nights, so that the voyage Of the telling faded into the hours lived Beside that voice—whiskey rough—again Taking up the exile’s lament:hekatomb, Distaff, honeyed wine . . .