That little whitewashed cube of cottage
wedged where two hills form a crease,
a few wind-harried bushes
like a draggled corsage pinned to cleavage,
all the blinding azure of the sea
touching the island's feet, and when
the evening lamp is doused, the fields
of stars like desert sheep…
Higher on the scarp, the shepherd's daughter
showed us broken shrines, rudimentary
altars, cruciforms incised in stone facades,
skulls of bulls with horns intact affixed
to spars and boundary markers, placed
as if to warn as well as guard
where two worlds seemed to meet,
Byzantine fusing with Minoan Crete.
I know those folk don't live there now.
They've given up their herdsmen's ways
and moved to town, and grown old,
and Spiridoula's hair is grey…
Spiridoula s place
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2007
Свидетельство о публикации №107031100801
Свидетельство о публикации №107031100801
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