SCIPIO

anachrone | 12 January, 2005 18:07

The Mediterranean stretched before him.

In smouldering scuttled hulks, the enemy fleet

lay dead, once pride and pest

of that placid main. The heat

troubled him; he felt oppressed.

And the land held nothing for him.

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His eyes roved over the waste. All round,

death rose in listless wisps of smoke: its reek

would drape history like a shroud.

Turning, he gazed awhile on his salt streak,

that runnel of ruin he had ploughed

to neuter this obstinately fecund ground.

Tired, he faced northwards again, and home.

His eyes briefly brimmed. No unlettered lout,

his mind hovered on distant Troy,

and saw in a poet

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