I remember August evenings
in the port of Kalymnos -
limestone mountains steeped in brine
dyed violet - royal murex shade
once distilled in ancient Carthage,
the Phoenicians' stock-in-trade;
pomegranate moon reflecting
sunset's fleeting eidolon,
Kos on the horizon
with its diamante choker on…
Desiccated summer lilacs
harbour the small island owl
whose onomatopoeic name
proclaims its presence in the dusk:
"Ghion!" a husky, single note,
an accent in the sea's slurred song
that breaks on phosphorescent rock;
the lights of caiques, peripheral
to voices from the street-cafes
whose tables edge the lyre-shaped quays,
until the moon makes way for dawn…
Saint Savva's gong a clarion
no sleeping sinner can dismiss,
transforming sea from darkest wine
to rosewater's translucent blush,
and vitriolic raki to fresh milk
from goats of Artemis;
trawling light out of the east,
the knotted nets of fishermen
mesh the limpid sea in pearl,
an evanescent overlay
suspended in the breath of myth,
dispelled by morning's azure veil…