South Wind

The wind is flirting with the sails
of windmills on the promontory,
murmuring in rock-chimneys
and crannies in a minor key,
filling the interstices, the hush
between the wash of waves
on shingle with a sotto voce,
repetitious threnody:
 
Do not refuse this voyage
to exotic subaquatic realms -
the gardens of Atlantis
lie off Cyprus, Libya or Crete,
amid the hulls of ancient vessels,
some still pointed toward Troy,
others heavy with amphorae -
come away with me…

I'll lead you to dim chasms
where the coral grows in fretted trees,
more precious than the rarest gems,
treasure of undreamt-of fathoms;
sponge-beds
where your mind sinks
in the sediment of history,
and marble arms will lure you
to harems of undulating weed…

The south wind tunes
the enigmatic impulse
to the distant journey,
maddening hard-bitten donkeys
shackled among gorse and scree.
In your dreams you'll hear the sirens
ride the winds from Santorini:
Leave your island, visions
lie in store if you will follow me -
back to my beginnings,
seas that whispered of the Ptolemies,
where consciousness sinks deep
to meet drowned nebulae and galaxies, 
and oracles still speak in ancient
tongues of the sublime Aegean:   
you will hear their prophecies
translated by the winds and waves…



from the Kalymnian cycle