Wind and Sea
A Tale... Perhaps from the Greek?
Inspired by this recent drawing by my sister, I wrote a poem…
Aeolus and Poseidon
Aeolus the wind, the buccaneer,
red of face and hard-fisted,
rose up in a jolly mood,
leaped up to dance,
drumming his heels on Poseidon’s roof.
Aurora smirked and looked
demurely the other way.
All the swallows that dart low
over the waves,
heard the clatter of feet
and the swish of Aeolus’ great jacket;
the swallows scattered swiftly to land.
Up rose Poseidon,
trident and trumpet,
waves unfurled with a froth and splutter;
the old god black-browed and fuming
at being awakened by a rogue’s feet
dinning the purple roof of his palace;
a hornpipe whistling
through the green windows,
waking the nereids,
who yawned and retreated
into the quiet of lustrous caves
roofed with rock and stilly for slumber;
yet they cast a glance
and a giggle behind them,
watching Poseidon blustering forth.
Out flew Poseidon, lashing the waves,
splashing, dashing,
crashing the waves
in a temper of tempest.
Up leaped Aeolus, laughing and blowing.
He kicked his heels;
he snapped his fingers;
he flung out his sails and caught the green
waves that curled at Poseidon’s bidding.
The old god caught sight of him;
Aeolus’ face was now red with laughter.
Ill-tempered the hand that hurled the trident
up at Aeolus.
Little it mattered, for the buccaneer
rode the waves that flung up after him,
cast out his sails,
black and white
with a red pennon atop,
rolled over the great waves
as Apollo’s chariots
ride the clouds of the dawn.
Aurora looked down,
and her laughter was gentler
by far than the wind,
quiet but merry.
She gazed down and saw
Aeolus’ sails billow
as he skimmed over the waves;
the sails diminished,
curving smaller and smaller
till they faded away in the far west.
Below her Poseidon stood,
reining his waves in beneath him,
calming their clashing,
soothing and smoothing
the great green crests.
Slowly the purple beard
of the old god, wet with his herd,
merged with the waters,
sank to murmur and mutter
back in the depths
of his sea-dusk palace,
quiet restored.
With a beckoning finger,
pink with the new light,
Aurora called forth
the quivering swallows
out of the cliff rocks,
out to the sea again
to dart once more
over the ruffling,
quiet necks of the waters.
It’s been quite a while since I’ve mentioned this, so here is a link to my very small volume of haiku, A Thousand Small Wings. I am working to complete some larger collections, but this has to be done between writing, running our vintage shop (Embassy of Elegance on Etsy), caring for horses and dogs, dodging migraines, etc, and all the other day-by-day things. Hopefully I will be able to get Where the Sun Sings into print shortly after the New Year… fingers very much crossed! Meantime, I’m still quite proud of my little collection of haiku.
Certainly from the Greek! And such fun to read.