Tuned to the Acropolis

In winter, aloes brace in frost,
hackles on a she-wolf's back;
streets are brittle with ice-crystals;
winds ravage the bony flanks,
foraging like flocks of hungry goats.

The birds have gone,
though throngs still come,
clamouring in foreign tongues.

Summer smoulders; kerosene-
pollution-blue, the Attic sky
yawns above the Agora,
portending stifling miasma.

Only at dusk do little owls,
Athena's darlings, venture out,
their velvet voices rippling
around the amphitheatre's tiers,
calling up blithe phantoms
from the great feast of Dionysos,
harping on a single phrase:
'Who - goes - there?'

In spring, when Judas trees and poplars
ravish squares with tender leaves,
your heart yearns for the fire of youth,
you want love to return, like truth.

The bleached knoll thrills to feathered flocks
released from exile, fledged with hope,
announcing with ecstatic throats
that dawn will come, they know it must.

Autumn's god-begotten rock
chills at the sun's indifference.
Pilgrims shamble down the slopes
as leaves descend in gold and rust.
The Theatre of Dionysos expels its ghosts,
the gates are closed.

It's then that memory picks locks,
steals in to infiltrate repose.
The lovers of the spring have fled,
a black stone has usurped their nest.
The vernal bed has grown cold
beneath the crowned Acropolis.