Bastet Poem by Nan Williamson

bastet

1.
curled in languorous sun,
sleek, black, dreams
of the other Egypt, burning myrrh
at sunset, and her father Ra.
Yawns, back arched, stretches,
pads on soft paws, rubs my calf,
purrs. Then, ears twitch,
head turns, she tongues
her fur, slouches off
to an unseen world.

2.
Bastet
now Artemis of Greece,
moon creature,
sits upright, presides,
eyes dilated, shine. She
watches tangled bodies
fondle soft flesh, feast
on apples, wine, curl exhausted
from their play or rise,
swaying to her faint retreating
music, dying on the wind.

3.
In holy feline form,
she crouches, guards her queen -
frail sign of that bright world
where poets sang,
and virgins danced in praise.
There is no shrine,
no trace of temple rites,
but, stained with tawny red and gold,
Bastet remains,
on crumbling walls in Nefertari's tomb.