A tarnished pomegranate warms the chill niche of the windowsill,
mottled like a faded kilim, mellow rose, dull gold;
the island in the autumn thrums to lyres of the bourini,
the pagan tongues of log fires in the chimneys;
ancient ferries plying the Aegean in the winter
run the gauntlet of the gales like emissaries of reason;
it is the lonely season, time to skein the yarn of summer
against the hollow tenancy of solitude;
the seas become insatiable, voracious for the sun,
old women seem to shrink into their shells of bone;
nomad animals inhale the hills' keen air, their rusted bells
awakening polyphonies in limestone.
The Lonely Season
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103020200205
Свидетельство о публикации №103020200205
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