Quiet Sunday, Alexandras Avenue

Sometimes, late September,
when the summer's dazzling meniscus
tilts towards crisp autumn's aura
framing Saint Demetrios,
the foul-mouthed avenue
is purged of fumes,
sea air from Phaleron
ripples beneath skies angelic blue,
old men in kafeneia
contemplate dense coffee grounds,
click kombolloi laconically,
as last shreds lofty poplars shed
drift lazy on the breeze.

The flank of Likavittos,
laced with pines,
foregrounds apartment blocks,
and throaty calls of doves
are audible in traffic's noonday lull
as Alexander's avenue
basks in unaccustomed peace,
while Athenians revisit villages
for Sunday feasts.

Old men whose birthplaces and children
long since have forsaken them
sit over their bitter coffee
in the summer-autumn sun.
Sunday is as tranquil
and reflective as a nun.
Old men's fingers count the hours
on beads nesting in jealous palms:
four, three, two, one -
heaven blinks, the day is gone.


*

*This poem first appeared in
the current issue of Stylus Poetry
Journal, edited by Rosanna Licari:
http://www.styluspoetryjournal.com