Tall Circe faced hell from the press
because she turned sailors to pigs,
to snuffle out green fallen figs
to glance at her, in her blue dress,
as they were settling down to sleep
in olive shadows, silvered, deep.
‘Poor girl. Another dodgy guest.’
Was Circe vegetarian?
Pigs are intelligent. They knew
which way her island’s breezes blew,
how clever captains swam home when
all crews lay lost below the mast.
Eyes closed, they sank, to their dry nest.
They wished her better taste in men.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Alison
be pleased to hear them.