Rhea
On her shut lids the lightning flickers,
Thunder explodes above her bed,
An inch from her lax arm the rain hisses;
Discrete she lies,
Not dead but entranced, dreamlessly
With slow breathing, her lips curved
In a half—smile archaic, her breast bare,
Hair astream.
The house rocks, a flood suddenly rising
Bears away bridges: oak and ash
Are shivered to the roots —royal green timber.
She nothing cares.
(Divine Augustus, trembling at the storm,
Wrapped sealskin on his thumb; divine Gaius
Made haste to hide himself in a deep cellar,
Distraught by fear.)
Rain, thunder, lightning: pretty children.
“Let them play,” her mother—mind repeats;
“They do no harm, unless from high spirits
Or by mishap.”
