Sometimes my muse falls silent
Angry with me, perhaps, or on leave
Or busy repotting tomato plants.
Suddenly my poems are in languages
I don’t understand. One winter
A very old muse insisted
That I compose in Linear B.
She would stalk through my dreams
Half unclad – Crete is never cold –
Telling me in that clattery tongue
How Pasiphae had always been
A sweet and very pleasant child.