For Theron of Akragas, winner in the chariot-race
Herakles in pursuit of the doe
with the golden antler
came to the land
beyond the north wind’s home
and wondered
at the forest of dark green
(for which there is no word in Greek)
and the round eye of the moon
gazed at him
a sweet urge came upon him
to fetch that primal greenness
and make shade for the racetrack
where the garden
with the consecrated altars of Zeus
was naked of trees and exposed
to the sun’s caustic rays
and now athletes
hot from the chase
and crowned
by the Arbiter of Games
carry that forest on their victors’ heads
The Guardian Saturday Poem, 28th July 2012
