Climb alone
To the top of a spiny
Mycenaean island and
Consider the sky
Clear and unfractured
By the screeching
Of far blown eagles.
Touch the edges
Of the pondering sea
With your eyes.
Listen for the
Reminiscences of the wind.
Look beneath the earth
You will find
A sleeping Macedonian soldier.
Ancient bronze helmet
Crumbling limestone memories.
Descend from the hills, and
Drink visions
Of olive groves, goatherds, and
Echos of regal Byzantium.
But it is the sea,
The narcotic Sea of Middle Earth,
The sea of lotus green and blue
Which rules, in this
Kingdom of forgetfulness.
If you make your way
Upward on a dusty road
Through fields of red opium flowers
And emerald grasses,
You will find the alien world
Of beating sun and
Beaten human will.
Daylight is sharp.
The slumped walls of fixed stones
are parched.
The barbed wire gardens
are withered.
Yet the birds and mountains
Swirl upwards towards God
While men sit rigid
At the village coffee shop.
Here there is past
without present.
Time enough for dense rememberings
Of vivid endings
Tired place
Lacking fresh beginnings.
Statuesque.
A priest
In black robes
Transfixed at the village coffee shop.
Clear eyes
Sunburnt brow
Grey beard
Rusted cross.