cycladia
next
Hotel Morpeus











The barbed wire rusts
in front of sea and telephone lines.

The metal grinder's cutting screaming sound
a backdrop.
 
 
 

 
"Hariston" 
my thanks 
are many
dropped here 
beneath a grapevine
growing out toward the beach.

Aegeon blue 
washes the sand
in memories of civilizations
come to this Olympian end
like Orpheus,
asleep
in a hotel bed
the size of Athens.

 As church bells chime the orthodox,
the sun peeps between the clouds
and glints
on passing windscreens
overtaking the past.

The bus waits beside,
the woman runs toward 
the beach,
taking her to work,
cutting off 
her escape,
into the sea.

 Even these caged birds hanging
cannot see their songs
echo in the wind,
their quests as unanswered
as their Icarian dreams remain
unwoken.
21/6/02  (halcida)