Mycenae Lookout 1: The Watchman’s War

My sentry work was fate, a home to go to,
An in-between-times that I had to row through
Year after year: when the mist would start
To lift off fields and inlets, when morning light
Would open like the grain of light being split,
Day in, day out, I’d come alive again,
Silent and sunned as an esker on a plain,
Up on my elbows, gazing, biding time
In my outpost on the roof… What was to come
Out of that ten years’ wait that was the war
Flawed the black mirror of my frozen stare.

-Seamus Heaney

image: a fresco depicting the arrival of the Trojan Horse

 

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