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 blackfringed,slow-rolling eye

Drowned in a swoon

Of darkness, and the gilt horns were rendered idle, A hazy half moon.