Standing on a sunswept kerb
waiting for the breakdown van,
senses teased by jasmine
spraying white stars on a portico,
trailing its distinctive scent
in stagnant air, so redolent
of spring's arrival almost anywhere,
why is there a tinge of sadness
in the way the shadows slant,
what transforms familiar spaces
to forlorn, this vacant trance
indicative of absences,
when jasmine marks the season's turn
from shrinking days
to escalating radiance?
What lingers in accustomed haunts
on drowsy Sunday afternoons,
where an entrance
bears the name "Makri",
in this small corner of a city
claimed by emigres from Greece?
"Makri" - the word for distant, as in far
and long, an exile's journey -
name bestowed on someone's haven,
here beside the sunstruck street...