The Sponge Divers of Kalymnos

... from old photographs ...

Out from the arid island sail the sponge-fleets,
sped by prayer and song, farewelled by women
wearing black, malnourished urchins, priests.
 
Old photographs show faces of that vanished
breed of men, like soldiers leaving
for the front, oarsmen bound for Troy,
doom and peril riding stowaway.

A diver, with his empty net caressing
naked loins, stares into the camera lens
before the plunge. A stone carved with a cross
will help him plummet to the depths.
He is vulnerable, strong, so young.

In autumn, when the crews return -
not all, but most, or some - the boats
will be festooned, their decks
piled high with summer's bounty.

The women waiting at the quay
will scarcely recognise their men,
bodies tempered by the sea,
bronzed by the Aegean sun.

In distant lands, soft hands will lave
well-nourished flesh with sea's rare gifts,
unaware that sponge divers
must grapple with colossal risks...

The silky fibres that caress   
have lured men to their deaths...