Of Marble Hair

Bright, yellow light that sleeps between the folds

Of marble hair, the eyes and flower of lips

That blossom as though love had breathed them whole

Upon the face—and so my mind must keep

Aware that some hard chisel, in a hand

Whose veins had lost their years to stone, had won

These lines from furtive rock, out of a land

Where gods were promises in wind and sun.

Now—its maker gone—it blindly stares; gaze bent

Against the dead, plain glass of second birth:

‘Found at the feet of the Acropolis’—

From land whose promises had lost their worth,

But whose labours’ fruits had perhaps been meant

For us: that line of eye, that flower of lips.