by R J Dent
The soft hooting will be the swooping owl
articulating a flight-path over
the cool tiles of this Samos balcony.
The tamarinds hiss like the sand in wind.
What else flits fast through violet air tonight,
past the boarded-up smoke house and moored boat?
Small waves lap at sections of ragged shore.
Perhaps one day the wind will blow due south,
reviving the burning and hard-packed ground.
You call softly; soon you will call again.
My pulse surges, a fresh spring comes to life.
Tonight, in your warm bloodstream, I will drown.
I stand. From below come the muted smells
of new-baked bread, fresh coffee, mixed spices,
that tell us all about our appetites.
Out in the hills, a warm breeze ripples gorse,
and I hear the soft notes of a guitar…
Later sleep will be induced, gods appeased,
as we lie linked, content with who we are.
Copyright © R J Dent (2009)