Memento

Lured out by a waxing moon,
pretending I must shop for food,
my olfactory senses feast
on perfumed oleander aisles;
I realise that I'll not find
the cherries or the summer wine
a spirit in me hungers for
and thirsts for, after all this time...

There was a cafe lamp alight
somewhere near Sparta or Mystras,
chestnut trees and poplars
starry-leaved beside a hidden stream.
Since it was too late to dine
we supped on cherries and chilled wine,
listening for nightingales
synonymous with Taygetos.

The Hotel Cecil's only guest
at the cheaper end of town,
I found the Spartan lodgings prim,
as the choice of name suggests.
In my room without a view
stars hummed chaste lullabies for two.

Cherries, Laconian wine are absent
from this tropic zone, but still
the moon, ubiquitous, drinks
oleanders' summer scent, as heat ebbs
and cicada chorus cools and loses impetus.

I opt for olives in their brine,
memento of the Spartan plain.