symi

the sea licks its slobby lips
in the coarse jaws of the crags
& sticks its tongue furry with fish
down the dry throat of the town

like snails the houses cling to the rocks
so many empty bomb-burnt full of dust and debris
mazes of streets leading again & again
into blind private labyrinths
of roofless rooms & corridors

& in a house here by the sea
some men signed papers that stopped the fires
but the sea does not argue
does not call truces or sign agreements

the sea sticks its tongue
a little further into the town
& the town square becomes a salt river
& the small fish can swim on the quay
unbothered by fishermen or cats
for the fishermen are in the cafe complaining
drinking ouzo & playing cards
& the cats are at the backdoor of the cafe
in the bins & stale bread

& the sea goes on licking
with a slow rhythmic passion
a little more each night

& in the gullet of the land
you can't see the sea's face
but only its tongue lapping
at your feet as you walk the street
the salty water pushing

the orange-seller up the hill
the cafe-man to bring in his tables
the wedding procession to wander
the back streets with flowers & guitars
while the sea laps contentedly around the shipping office
laps the old stone like a thirsty traveller sucks a pebble
hardly missing the slight weight of the painted skiffs
or the tickle of the nets on its fine bone flecked furriness

until it tires (maybe it has some other place to go)
& slips away inch by inch stone by stone
until the fish flicker again below the quay wall
& the fishermen scull out their skiffs
& the cats snatch the fish once more piled by the cafe tables
& the ferryboat comes
that has seen the sea's face
wind-crazy & wrinkled
drawn by its old insatiable passion
into the decrepit arid lips of the land