I swing the car into Paradise Street,
two pomegranates in my lap,
a gift for a friend,
heavy and cold as heads of twin
figurines from antiquity.
Raindrops cling to the dark windscreen –
seeds, or the translucent
idea of grain - as Athens Street
slips by in dusk on the right.
Oh for a blizzard, a winter night
in a cabin on Pindos or Parnassos,
candles casting a fitful glow
in draughts from the chimney,
coals in the stove
rosy as these bittersweet globes,
mysterious as those Persephone
held in her lap as the chariot bore her
out of the abysmal depths
to floral carpets for her feet,
a vernissage of fruit and wheat.