The Cave Of Pan

Climbing Parnassus,
adoring blue anemones
and breathing pine,
we reached the grassy threshold.
The floor sloped steeply in,
cluttered with stalagmites
like stumpy phalli.
In Greek, some wag
had written ‘PAN’ on one.

Down in the dark it seemed no jest.
Could we detect a whiff of goat?
A tapping hoof? Uncouth guffaws?
Authentic terror turned us to rock.

Then, out of yet deeper dark,
softly contralto, like a bamboo flute,
there came a mocking Call.
An owl! Bird of Athene.
She of the clear grey eyes of reason.

Depetrified, we turned and walked
out to the light again.