The Triumph of Hellenism

10th November

The Triumph of Hellenism

 

It was a busy year for death

She crept about the palace.

And we had poor defence

And she had little malice

A gentle touch put here -

A sad and curt embrace.

A wooden kiss enough

To put them in their place.

And where my father went

Is not now common knowledge;

The inventory was lent

To some old Cambridge college.

I had little faith then,

Nothing spoke to me.

When what you see is Gospel,

The Gospel isn’t free.

And Krishna’s conch is sunk,

The lotus not in bloom,

Solomon’s song unsung

And prayers are called too soon.

So where my father went

Is wind against the Mountain

His love was all but spent

So mine is as a fountain.

 

All the fruit turn red,

Some of them are still green

But never will you see one

That’s stuck and in between.

As all came from a garden

Where the wind has died down low

And there my father went

To help the green fruit grow.

He tends them with a smile,

His fingers stroke the leaves.

He’ll never leave the garden,

It’s all that I believe.