In the midst of the ruins of Ilium
I abducted, in three woody cradles,
three tiny infants. I would plant them
in Chiswick far from the windy Hellespont.
If they germinate, I thought, those acorns
from the Trojan oak, I could amuse
my friends; invoke the heroes
of that siege; jerk a thumb
to the east and conjure up the field
where Hector, Ajax and Achilles perished:
preparations for a future time – then forgotten.
But all of four years on, beside the shed,
in a standing pot I noticed, one perfect,
green sproutling! How odd, I thought,
for some obsessive squirrel to chose
such a spot to bury provender!
I found myself thinking then of Paris,
Helen and The Wooden Horse. Only later
did it snap into consciousness that this
WAS one of those thrilling aliens
just doing what it is supposed to do.
It had sprung forth heedless of renown
and latitude or legendary blind poets!
Doubtless it was down to sly Odysseus:
he must had that gift-horse hewn, perhaps
from near-by timbers of identical lineage.
Now I must watch closely for catapults
and chariots, listen for the wind-rattle
of a westerly biting at a thousand sails;
hearken for Trojan beaten bronze
clattering against Mycenaean armour
and Achilles’ immortal, Iron-age shield.