In times of sadness or distress,
common heartache, loneliness,
the spirit searches mind's archives
to find a place of rest.
For me the search is image-led,
and often guides me back to Greece,
to sanctuaries and monasteries -
places infinitely blessed.
Today, my skies obscured by cloud,
the air becalmed, I'm taken back
to foothills of immense Parnassos,
earthly relics of a saint - an icon-painter,
venerated for the works his hands
have wrought, now casketed in glass,
enshrined, swathed in softest fur and silk.
In the courtyard, ancient pines
sift flakes of snow; their native incense
permeates the atmosphere with resin.
Not far from here, at Distomo,
the Nazis massacred all present -
new-born infants and the aged,
emissaries of God: none spared -
reprisals for the local partisans
resisting their advance.
Such is the price that some
have paid to salvage peace.
Coaches draw up in the courtyard,
belching toxic fumes; tourists overrun
the precinct, scrambling for souvenirs.
In the midst of this detritus,
meditative stillness hides,
but cannot be extinguished
by the ripples that perturb the surface.
How I long to breathe the airs
that haunt those foothills of Parnassos,
purified by herbs whose essence
smells of liberty and health.
My spirit pleads for a retreat
to some secluded sanctuary,
a hospice where serenity
and harmony meet sanctity.
The monastery and shrine of Ossios Loukas
(Saint Luke), near Distomo, Fokida, Greece