Three Poems

The Lay of the Host

I spent the plague years in Kiev,
inexplicably smitten with Prince Igor,
no sleep, no rest, you must have heard,
slava, he sang,
darkly, brightly bari,
glory to the people,
furs and wax
amber and honey.
Tomorrow the full moon will rise
on the verge of war
infusing the snow
with the stench of
frozen vainglory
petrol and gore
and thereafter, spring,
the despot’s swansong
...