Yannis Keats

A branch, the hand of Apollo, The plane tree’s polished, broad bough, Spread above you, may it bring you The universe’s immortal peace. You’d meet me on the broad and shining shore Of Pylos, so I’d planned, With Mentor’s tall ship pulled up on the beach Snug in the sand. We would be bound, as those who sailed with the gods, In the winged friendship of youth, And would take our seats in the stone thrones that Time And custom had made smooth And meet that man who still in the third generation Reigned serene, a sage Whose tales of travels and holy decrees had ripened In his mind with age— At dawn, we’d attend the sacrifice to the gods, The ritual slaughters Of the three-year-old heifers, and hear the single cry That rose from his three daughters When the axe thwacked, and the black-fringed, slow-rolling eye Drowned in a swoon Of darkness, and the gilt horns were rendered idle, A hazy half moon. My love imagined you, as a sister her brother, In your virginal bath, How Polycaste rinsed your naked body and dressed you In a robe of fine cloth. I thought to prod you a little with my foot As dawn was about to break: The gleaming chariot’s yoked for us and ready. No time to lose! Awake!