Waiting

Even Athenians shut their doors, take to their beds
To see out the swelter; the surface of the Parthenon
Unevenly shimmering marble, sliding limestone

As we, sandaled, bristled over it, blister backed
Tourists strapped into rucksacks, camera toting,
Braving the violence of sun high, hushed on hilltop,

Overseeing the pot shards, abandoned spots
Of marketplace, columns, municipal outlines
Below, foundations bared like the gums of old men.

The amphitheatre neatly tucked around the other side
Where Tchaikovsky’s violin concertos weave out
Notes into cooler evenings, Aeschylus, no longer.

Athens, replete on remnants, mouths feastful, hands dishing
Up the past on the shoulders of the Acropolis
As if it was raised, exultant, above its head like a trophy.

Athens, mirage hot, sweating cars, hooting in traffic,
Bellow swells of carbon monoxide thudding
From exhausts, flooding the city as fast as history can be restored.

In history hope lingers, running its fingers over artefacts,
Though no expectation follows, it throws pennies in fountains,
But it remains true enough that history is still waiting.