by Christopher Logue

    To welcome Hector to his death

    God sent a rolling thunderclap across the sky

    The city and the sea

    And momentarily——

    The breezes playing with the sunlit dust——

    On either slope a silence fell.

    Think of a raked sky-wide Venetian blind.

    Add the receding traction of its slats

    Of its slats of its slats as a hand draws it up.

    Hear the Greek army getting to its feet.

    Then of a stadium when many boards are raised

    And many faces change to one vast face.

    So， where there were so many masks，

    Now one Greek mask glittered from strip to ridge.

    Already swift

    Boy Lutie took Prince Hector's nod

    And fired his whip that right and left

    Signalled to Ilium's wheels to fire their own，

    And to the Wall-wide nodding plumes of Trojan infantry——

    Flutes！

    Flutes！

    Screeching above the grave percussion of their feet

    Shouting how they will force the savage Greeks

    Back up the slope over the ridge， downplain

    And slaughter them beside their ships——

    Add the reverberation of their hooves： and

    "Reach for your oars. . ."

    T'lesspiax， his yard at 60°， sending it

    Across the radiant air as Ilium swept

    Onto the strip

    Into the Greeks

    Over the venue where

    Two hours ago all present prayed for peace.

    And carried Greece

    Back up the slope that leads

    Via its ridge

    Onto the windy plain.