We lived at the epicentre once,
below the limestone omphalos -
Athena Partheni's shrine,
where sound eddied all around
the core - serene, remote, sublime -
to penetrate the blinds as muted roar,
as the world's cacophony
might seep to queens
in hives' still hearts,
muffled by the wax to gravid pause.
Within the apartment's heavy walls,
you could not hear rain
tiptoe over the hill,
drops tingling on weathered marble,
kissing dusty acacia leaves
met by chance in the street,
running fingertips
tentatively through the olive tree.
Here, in the house of antipodes
sounds ricochet like hard, dry peas,
rattle of seeds in a dessicated
pod from a poinciana tree;
storms drum down
with the bony sound of knuckles
on the weary tin,
wind raps parched limbs against the sill
in fitful outbursts of ill-will.
Within such arbitrary frames
familiar patterns shift and strain,
one never hears the wind and rain
the same way twice:
each breath means change…