Sweet Scents before Sunrise
Strigil-work both cleanses and consecrates her,
sweet devotion sung in each brazen blade-stroke
scraped across oiled skin, so she finally might
forget the day’s toil.
Swift she steals my collar and robe. I stand bare
while the blade runs over my flesh; its cool touch
makes me shiver. Teasing, she tells of sweet times
when we were both young.
It rejuvenates us, the rosy warm bath:
brows become unlined yet our fingers dried figs;
young I feel again—but too swift the time flies
ere we return home.
All the while I kiss her, forgetting bright helm,
doffing silver chains, for what honour stands tall
held against the joy of but holding her close,
blissful and wine-drunk?
Though the olive oil and our rose-perfumed bath
linger still within our anointed flesh now,
bittersweet it seems; of that scent there will be
nothing by daybreak.
