Penelope Awaits

By the harbour wall, she waits;
the lacquer on her hair agleam
as golden as the fabled Fleece,
with roots deep dark as midnight sky:
the sun and moon are rivals for her crown -
and still she waits, with unconcern
for all the kingdoms of the world,
while the double-headed hydra
of her thighs lies curled asleep
inside the nylon scented cave
where once the boldest spear sojourned -
but now, all she knows are bardic tales
of far adventure, of heroes lost,
of cities set aflame - and yet she waits.