Sunday, April 27, 2008

She was one of Aphrodite's kin.
A child of mercy,
Restraining the hand of Ares.
In her neighbour's yards
She planted great olive trees
Whose branches stretched tall and wide.

And in a flickering moment
He caught her beauty in a
Golden glass.

Lying near her
Under an olive tree,
He stole the moment
Of a God's gift.

And poised in her lioness' snare,
She broke off an olive branch
And in her palm crushed the olives
Until they bled sweet juices.

To protect her dire soul,
She let the oil drip down her hair,
the bridge of her nose,
the curve of her lips.

She touched his burning cheeks
With her palms.
The child of mercy
No longer restraining his hand.

Later, when dusk
Had darkened the landscape,
With bloody hands
He dug a small grave
Under the same olive tree.

When the grave once more
Had been filled with bone and dirt,
The great twisting roots
Were quick to grasp her gentle limbs
In a lover's eager embrace.