Athena turned ’round her head
like a night owl on the sly
and looked up behind her
as gold Apollo crossed the sky,
riding with his four coursers’
flying gilded manes and hooves.
Their silver flanks and quarters
thunder across the earth’s blue roof.
The rhythm of their beat
stamps a lyric all their own,
blood coursing with the heat
of the sun-disk they all towed.
The she-god of the wise
observes this cloud-streaked scene,
the man-god shining out,
casting shadows ’round Athene.
Apollo’s path is sinking low
as the winter months advance.
The frost now blurs his glow
and bare forests fall into trance.
It’s in this creeping night
that Athena finds her time.
She draws her wisdom in twilight,
no need for blinding light up high.
For she shines not with a sun.
Instead she lights her own pathway.
By her craft and wits she’ll run
her own trail she blazed today.
Inspired by a statue of Athena in Park Sanssouci in Potsdam. She is posed looking over her shoulder, and at the moment I saw the statue, she seemed to be looking at the setting sun.
