3.
no-one has fished for weeks,
the boats are hauled up under the trees
by the dusty road in the quivering haze.

everything as usual:
the jetty, the pebbles, the road up the hills.
the bus has taken the school on a picnic.

What to do? walk
along the shore, sit at the shuttered cafe.
nothing moves on the hills, on the sea

- in august this road is like syntagma -

kythera


1.
this bed is damp     across the road
raise voices as the taverna closes
she shifts under his arm
        pale-painted
narrow room high and black-raftered

in the hall outside someone shuffles
falls about coughs vehemently beside the door
not like a knock, not a threat

2.
The bays are heelprints, hoofmarks or like where
pastry's been punched out, or . . .

from this hidden garden in the ruined battlement
we watch the cafe, the taverna,

the closed houses, odd little beasties that are
people, working, wiping their mouths, talking.

It's all a long way down. We lie in the walls'
shelter, drowse where the sun

sprawls through bushes aching with young fragrance
and insects drone and thrum. No doubt

it's the same down there, but not so perfect; the world
is amazing, but far too below. We laze,

we watch without need, without desire. Is this also
perhaps what gods do?

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