Jason and Medea

 

The draped figure on the broken cliffs
extends her arm, tattooed with serpents,
at the rocking shape on the dark waves. 
The hero, bold thief of the glittering fleece,
his quest long over, finished with his gods, 
dotingly secures his trophy below.
The oars stroke the sea, the bright sail swells 
the jutting prow pierces the black sea.

Should he have foreseen the witch standing 
amid the decay of Doric columns,
her lush lips sculpting shapes out of whispers 
in the wind, breathing life into vengeance?
Should he have foreseen the scattered bones? 
Should all the bloodshed and the sacrifice
so nobly achieved in glorious deeds
be undone in those ruinous eyes? 

There is no oracle to guide him,
no magician’s trick, no conjuring.
In the eternity of time and space
the path he followed from his reckless youth
must intersect the witch’s bloody love.
The savage gropes through history into myth;
no divinity reveals his path—  
there are only the wind and silent stars.

by Peter L. Scacco 

Email: plscacco@austin.rr.com