Faded, faint with hunger, and fragmented
come his tales - a mariner from Kythera
who tramps the Athens streets,
a model schooner in his hands, self-made,
he'd trade for cash or food
if there were any takers
for the schooner's mast and sails.
I cannot buy the vessel,
so he offers me his anecdotes - a man
matured as if in oak, whose captain's cap
and rolling gait attest to years of seafaring -
no mere flirtation with the ocean,
but a long apprenticeship
to docks and cargoes, harbours, gales.
He tells me of tavernas in Antipodean
cities; a freezing passage to Japan,
shore leave in sunny Sydney; an islander
from Cephallonia on remote Nauru,
making sheep's-milk yoghurt to a village
recipe; the char-grilled lamb awaiting them
each time they reached Port Philip Bay.
Many hours later, I encounter him anew,
still carrying the model schooner all the way
from Kythera. Footsore from the Athens
pavements, broke, though not in spirit - yet -
he musters me a smile and asks:
Where was it that we met?