Chrysso, below Delphi
As breeze turns myriad grey leaves,
revealing silver underneath
like fingerling that gleam in shoals
along arced spines of waves upreared,
a whisper rises from the groves,
sibylline as Delphic smoke,
and travels imperceptibly as oracles
from tree to tree: "Here breathed
heroes, deities, out of shining
myths of old; here were kingdoms
rich in gold, beside the singing sea…"
Groves of the Sibyl
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104081500178
Свидетельство о публикации №104081500178
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