(But it doesnae rhyme ...)Achilles, by Carol Ann Duffy
Myth's river — where his mother dipped him, fished him, a slippery golden boy flowed on, his name on its lips.
Without him, it was prophesied, they would not take Troy.
Women hid him, concealed him in girls' sarongs; days of sweetmeats, spices, silver songs...
But when Odysseus came, with an athlete's build, a sword and a shield, he followed him to the battlefield, the crowd's roar,
And it was sport, not war, his charmed foot on the ball... But then his heel, his heel, his heel...
An occasional glimpse into the workings of the Scottish Parliament and the Scottish Executive (or comments on anything else that takes my fancy).
17 March 2010
Poem of the day
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