Moonrise

The city sleeps, and over its dark fen
A sacred stillness rises to the sky
As if the urbs aeterna lived again—
Its centuries of ruin brushed aside
Just long enough to catch a fleeting glimpse
Of soaring temples, bustling markets’ din—
An ancient people’s worship that still drinks
The nectar of our admiration in.
So always it will be within the gates
Of pagus, if one does not tempt the Fates.

But does such worship augur truly? High
Above the grim horizon hangs a bow,
Diana’s graceful weapon in the sky,
Portent of vengeful fury, and aimed so
To pierce the hearts of all who will not cry,
“Great is Artemis of the Ephesians!”
Hers is an awful beauty that must die
When life eternal is unveiled, and ends
The huntress’ long pursuit of mortals’ blood
With One who offers us His own instead.

The narrow sliver of her wicked rule,
Its dreadful curvéd point extending far
Above the ever-spreading sanguine pool,
Begins to fade before the growing star
Of silver æther, the great harvest-sign.
That vaunts not its own light, but showing true
The softer gleam reflecting from the Sun
Which rising with wing-healing, melts the dew
Of overspreading pagan worship arts,
To rise a faithful witness in our hearts.

Jeremy Vogan, Autumn 2024

Photo credit: StockCake