I dream of Athene, nights; of the grey
sea strident on the stones,
and a lone gull flying.
I dream of the grey-eyed goddess eying
those brilliant Achaean bones
bleaching beside the wine-dark sea.

I now know nothing of history,
except that men kill men
under the gull’s eye.
Temporary heroes slaughter and die,
dreaming that now and again
Athene does not look down indifferently

On a brilliant Achilles striding to his doom,
or a careful Odysseus searching grey seaways home.