grins and insouciance,
tanned shoulders shrugging
under swaying plane trees,
black as thunder;
salt on their leaves,
and salt on our lips;
a singer croons about love,
or loss, or sinking ships
Patsoula brings beer,
her hips swinging,
her breasts sheeted with sweat
and silver glitter
little niches around us,
stone walls,
round tables,
plastic chairs,
and a night that never bends
we count drachmas,
ena dio tria tessera,
Patsoula laughs,
white teeth gleam
like the foam crowning the waves
of the Aegean below us
hours ago
we were Poseidon’s sons
splashing in the sea,
then walking hand in hand
through the pine grove,
red sand and dust swirling
under our feet
our faces still glow
with the remains of the ferocious sun,
and the off-white stones
of the low walls around us
slowly breathe
safe and secure, their smell,
and comforting and solid,
of things past and to come,
a hint of dried pine needles,
a trace of salt and tears,
the fragrance of everything crumbling,
eventually,
crumbling and turning to dust
and then Patsoula shouts,
‘More beer?’,
we nod and grin
and shrug our tanned shoulders,
pende exi efta,
love, and loss,
and sinking ships
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