[from Candles in Babylon, 1982]
She and the Muse
by Denise Levertov
Away he goes, the hour’s delightful hero,
arrivederci: and his horse clatters
out of the courtyard, raising
a flurry of straw and scattering hens.
He turns in the saddle saving a plumed hat,
his saddlebags are filled with talismans,
mirrors, parchment histories, gifts and stones,
indecipherable clues to destiny.
He rides off in the dustcloud of his own
story, and when he has vanished she
who had stood firm to wave and watch
from the top step, goes in to the cool
flagstoned kitchen, clears honey and milk and bread
off the table, sweeps from the hearth
ashes of last night’s fire, and climbs the stairs
to strip tumbled sheets from her wide bed.
Now the long-desired
visit is over. The heroine
is a scribe. Returned to solitude,
eagerly she re-enters the third room,
the room hung with tapestries, scenes that change
whenever she looks away. Here is her lectern,
here her writing desk. She picks a quill,
dips it, begins to write. But not of him.