Pelion

The small owls cry
through the centaur's woods,
bronze wings clashing
through the dry autumnal leaves.
Old battles echo in the air -
the brazen shield and iron spear
flash in the moonlight.
Caught between the fearful dream
and feared reality
the fieldmice still,
crouch lower than the rabbits in the groves.
The owls fly on,
more haunted now than hunting,
towards a time
when pale Athena, helmeted and armed,
lifted her shield
to catch the owl-eyed moon.

poem by Kathleen Griffin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!