John William Waterhouse

 

 

The Last Sibyl

"The crucible that is my heart is dark
and cold, and I am older than I seem
to such as you, who touch me not. The lark
will come and sing; the lark will go, a dream

"of seasons: time's a blur to me now. Deep
within my cave I huddle, long for breath
to cease its rattle. Cattle come and keep
myself distracted. Life has no more depth."

A voice as thin as whispers, barely sound,
recites laments that no-one seems to hear
within the cave, without it, and it's drowned
in even silent, unencumbered ears,

but still it whispers, hidden in the cave
that's lasted long beyond the pagans' graves.

Copyright © 2012 Phillip Ellis