This anger of yours feels like
a distant thunderclap

without the startle of light,
yellow leaves dropping

from a well looked-after plant,
or – judging by how often

we have chased the night scouts
from the peaches – 

an army in the house
and with what plans

I cannot tell.
You know the Trojan story well.

All were the playthings
of the gods.

Let’s look for other joys
to replace the one that’s gone.

We’ll send the golden apple back
before there’s damage done.

The gods can find
another game to play.

Judith Bishop