Mykene
'Mykene' by Roger Iredale
Summer morning come heat on the wine-field
and the lizards crinkle
understone. In olive groves cicadas chirr
and the blunt lion-gate lies open to the horde.
Those hills opposite
were purple in the dawn, now fragments in a heat
like twisted tin. The gods are sniffing dust
while archaeologists
prise out their chamber-pots, or brush with feather
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