Stin Kriti

Is it the light
Refracting our dreams
Of elsewhere that
Draws us back ?
Back to where our
Foreignness is respected
And the unfailing courtesy
Of xenophilia is extended;
Memories of wartime heroics
Are undimmed in proud whiskery
Old men who recount
The deeds of Paddy and Xan
In remote Cretan villages;
From groves of ancient olive
Invisible cicadas broadcast
Their levantine sussurus
Whilst we doze away the
Fierce afternoon in cool siesta
Avoiding the snares of the noon-day
Demon who preys on those who linger
In the shades of cypress at this hour;
Between dreaming and waking
The goat-footed one may
Be glimpsed piping
A sweet sad threnody murmuring
Promises that cannot be kept
To yearning maidens and hopeful swains;
By the seashore crowds of teenagers
From Wythenshawe and Cheadle Hulme
Pack the bars and discos
Synthetic throbbing beats eclipsing
The measured strains of
Panpipe and tettix;
Ill met by moonlight
A turtle lumbers ashore
To lay her eggs
In the warm sand
Fulfilling her
Chelonian
Obligations