Almost imperceptibly the old women of Zia
materialise along my route, an interrogatory,
mute chorus. Eyes hold mine, unreadably:
'Who is she?' 'Who are they?'
sibylline in trellised shade of forecourts.
Steadfast in gardens, native
as the lemon trees and olive trees,
the watchful figures flank me wordlessly.
I understand, or make believe I do -
they see me as a messenger. What
messenger can I be, who bears no news
of sons in emigration, in Australia...
In West End I have seen their sons
selling almonds, feta, figs...
Passing through, I sense my presence
catching an unravelled thread;
long to metamorphose to a courier,
transposed from myth: 'Greetings
to Stefano my son, from grieving
Ourania, who lives still, on Dikeos,
in the blue house by the church, in Zia.'
A Messenger
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103020200170
Свидетельство о публикации №103020200170
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