In the Tomb of Diana

In the tomb of Diana, with her dogs
at rest — long gone are the days
of stalking the hart, chasing the boar.

Her bow is worn and broken, unstrung
in the corner. Her scuffed shield is cracked,
caked with mud and shadow.

Marble, dried flowers, and tarnished brass
take the place, now, of lush groves,
garlands, and shimmering

moon-lit pools. Where once she played her part —
the pale lamp illuminating the map
of heaven: back arched, eye sharp, legs strong,

her hand released, again and again,
the taut tendon string, the arrow golden
charged to fly straight, and true,

silently through the heart
of time itself, until there was
time no more — now you stand

in this cold tomb, in this wild grove
and wonder at the thought
that brought you here, long after

the day is gone.

[Hillary Lyon is editor for the small press poetry journals The Laughing Dog, and Veil: Journal of Darker Musings. She holds an MA in Literature from SMU. Her work has appeared recently in Red River Review, Scifaikuest, and Red Fez. She lives in Southern Arizona.]

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