Thessalia, Greece
The foreign woman and her child
arrive from Athens as night falls.
The door opens, and winter's breath
collides with fug of resin smoke
and ouzo fumes, the eye meets pine logs
stacked against the inner walls.
Granite spires prehensile phantoms
beyond naked panes: curtains are superfluous
where gods hold prior claims.
That night, the man raves in his cups,
the sad wife polishes old stains
to Vespers from the stylite cells
above the glaucous snow-cloud wraiths,
voices pellucid and strange
as birdcall ringing after rain.
Flakes of snow brush lamplit windows,
mothlike, blindly fleeting motes forming runnels
on rough cheeks of brute unseeing monoliths.
for Romany
Kalambaka
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110063001372
Свидетельство о публикации №110063001372
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