Troy (Poem)

The air hangs still and silent,

Suspended in the heat of the afternoon.

It feels like the dog days of August,

Though the first day of summer has yet to arrive.

I sit in the shade on the hill, close my eyes, and listen.

I hear the distant stamp of armored feet,

The rattle of sword and spear against shield,

And the rhythmic chant of warriors’ song.

And I know: the Achaeans have arrived.

The wind briefly stirs

And brings the coppery scent of blood,

The drifting remnants of ash from sacrificial pyres,

And the faint threnody of women’s cries.

The ground beneath me shakes as Troy’s walls collapse.

Rising, I become aware of a passing train.

The sky has clouded over, but the scorching air persists.

The goddess’ wrath echoes in each step I take,

As I walk home to have a cup of tea.