The Cenotaph

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Callimachus, Epigram 20

This mausoleum, unoccupied,
waits open-doored for Lycus,
gone on a merchant trip to Aegina.
He, of Naxos, and well-versed
in the seasons, went anyway
when Orion and Arcturus bode ill.
He drowned. Ship sunk,
Lycus inside the rotting hulk
of shattered vessel, now sells
his wares to the canny octopus.
Or worse, his bird-picked visage,
floats eyes-up in a knot of weeds.

Decorum forbids these thoughts
be put on stone, so just
his name above the lintel
must suffice. Wild wind
cascades the oak leaves in,
then out, of the empty tomb.

Step in. Remember him,
and if a soft murmuring
comes up, the breeze
and swaying myrtles amplify,
until a goat-cry issues
from your unwilling throat,

it is a warning to mariners,
of the two Kid-stars
in flickering Capella, whose fall
presages the storms that kill.