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.