You rise in Matron deity
from a cold delitescence
in garbs of sickly pale.
I ponder Your plight
as You ascend regal stairs
and sit in such dread
over men, good and evil.
for Your fall is a great one indeed
like Saul, Caesar, I
each one: a swirling penultimate
an irony of ironies.
we marvel at Your power
of stirring and fortitude.
an endless offing – You defeated Them all
Neptune, Poseidon, Thetis, Triton.
all are but lone sepoys
trudging on through hot sands and east winds.
bound by Your beck and call.
each marching as cannon fodder
in timely routines, ebbs and flows
yet in vain scandal You hide
Your fearful cheeks – in wax, in wane
still we all count subtly by You.
and I too shall one day succumb
to Your Atlas pull
and let old Earth fall limply beneath my feet
and soar upwards into Your gentle bosom
avi numerantur avorum; “Happy is he with such a Mother”