This travertine marble has travelled far.
It was thirsty work those two hundred miles,
Those eight hundred feet from quarry to here;
All those heights above undrinkable water.
Under the burnt streets of this hilltop town
This cooling water will spill from a wound
Neptune made in the side of the mountain.
We, with our dried-up throats, cannot yet drink
From this fresh source of our own devising –
The naiads are playing with Tantalus.
We kneel with hope on the stone steps and pray,
But that pale-faced chalice remains unfilled.
Years pass and the fountain gives of its gift
To those who need help and ask for relief.
Now our thirsty work has been forgotten
When we return and find the fountain dry.
But today our prayers are heard nearby,
For there is a small bar across the square
Where mischievous naiads are forbidden
And water comes in bottles, not fountains.
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Author:
Robert Tilleard (
Offline) - Published: August 16th, 2022 12:39
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
Offline)
Comments1
A poem which truly fuels my thirst for more.
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