For their sport

In a mood as usual, Jove spat. A comet
of divine expectorate exploded
in the green, just off some coast. Euterpe
tugged his selfish sleeve; glancing back, he
noted how the whole island shuddered.
A klaxon howled, and mortals hid from it.

“Never apologise,” he said. The Muse,
astounded, remonstrated soundly. Fool,
to think that she could move her master’s mind!
He turned on her. “High time you tried your hand
at divine intervention. Make merciful
overtures, if you must. It’ll be no use...”

How right he was. Euterpe went and tuned
her hopeful harp. The heart of the inferno
set raging on the fatal shore, a mass-
murdering mess, was where her masterclass
took place. Before her harp-strings could turn to
ash – all froze. “I told you so!” Jove grinned.

Now metamorphosed, here she sits.
She smoothly breathes; there’s plenty in the tank.
Her thumb and fingers seem poised to reclaim
their pure notes – but no one lives to hear them.
The population, after all, has shrunk.
And the gods save their yarns for the ex-pats.