Nymph of the Phrase

Echo, you live in the mountains of Greece.
It’s your favourite spot, you creature of grotto

and rock. Here you come into your own
as you sound and resound in the search

for the weary who follow the path, the deceptive path
on a fiercely hot day and are lost.

Sometimes of course, you thrive in the mist
the Welsh mist of the Brecon hills.

Invisible yourself, you cannot lead
but you have your voice which may not

be much, but at least you are no longer
second best to the moods of gods and men.

Needy girl, romantic girl
what have you learned of love?

Love, you say. Love, love
love of love.

You wore a garland of ivy
but its winter blossoms are fading now.

I should let your white bones blend with soil
continue to root in the strata of myth.

But Echo, there’s a man in America
who needs a voice, an old man struggling

with words and how to use them
so they make sense.

Go on. Help him. Your name means
restore as well as repeat.

Girl of words, nymph of the phrase,
say it is possible, possible.

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Mandy Pannett

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