Somewhere Near Palmyra

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“The glory of the City was the temple of the sun.” 

—Will Durant 

He saw something that morning 
deep among the delicate leaves 
burning against the Eastern sky 

The sun and suns, 
radiance enfolded 
in oak and elm 

visages of light 
luminous as seer stones 
rinsing the still grasses 

personages of fire, 
jasper and cornelian, 
dispersing the morning dew: 

images that bore him 
through dark of night, 
terror of loneliness, 
blood of betrayal, 
the ache of small graves, 
to death from the prison window 
where, wings collapsing 
through the summer air, 
he fell— 

And I know, kneeling 
among the secret trees 
this winter morning 
where no birdsong rings 
among the barren bush 
and no leaves spring green, 
where darkness thickens and gathers
among the withered weeds 
and my tongue is a fish 
under the river’s roof, 
that I too see what he saw—

sun, light, fire— 

images of glory 
flashing through the 
morning mist.