We carry on alone, my son and I,
Watching, each night, Apollo's horses die
Across the western sea, I can't betray
The anger in my heart at being prey
To unknown armies, horrid in their pride,
Taunting me with fears that you have died.
We know the gods must blow you home some day.
These three brief years alone can seem a score,
Weary waiting with a heart of stone.
Your son and I yearn for some God-sent sign
Saying the sea-spent sailor comes ashore,
Bearded and brown, wind-whittled down to bone.
My absent love, you list too long a time.
(c)Philomene Hood 2003
from Ride Home Through Scented Grass
Pearl Line Press, Zuni, VA
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