by Glen Martin Fitch

Down deep, 
down steep, dark tunnels I descend, 
till statue, scroll, or frieze appears. 
I scan the gilted images. 
Might each portent 
grand rites and mysteries 
as old as man? 
Behold a cat, a boat, 
a frozen scene of sacrifice, 
a priest in bird-faced cap. 
A coiled cobra, 
could that mean a Queen? 
Rebirth's a scarab? 
Life, a sandal strap? 
I've read how old reliefs 
can crumble, fade or rot 
from light of day 
and human breath. 
These works were wrought with hope 
to outlive death. 
They die 
by those who sought 
to give them aid. 
Just so, 
thought I would hoard them, 
yet it seems each dawn arrives 
to dissipate my dreams. 


Glen Martin Fitch's picture

Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."

Last updated August 24, 2011