by William-John Deerin

A yellow-dust road.
Rocks, red with concentric shocks.
The blue-green of olive trees.

A cliff-edged monastery blocks
deep umber into a blaze of blue.
Only the beckoning sea waits below.
Behind the walls an old man, bare
chested, tends beds of bougainvillea.
Pearls of sweat fall on a silver crucifix.

Women fluster with brushes
along well-worn cloisters. Above,
white lanterns hang like a constellation.
Inside a cool cell,
a seamstress stitches a flutter of wings
on a proud procession of little frocks.

This is Kipoureon,
the afternoon before midnight Mass.
Hammers fashion fragments of landscape.

We sit at a table overlooking
the sea, under a trellis heavy with grape.
A handsome man leans into our conversation;
He greets us. Στ?ν ?γει? σαζ!
Wine and cheese appear.
Differences disappear, dust on dust.
Then others join us,
shepherd, carpenter, doctor. We unite as one.
A gust of wind flows across us.
Wives and mothers
tell tales of mishaps and desires.
The old man wears the robes of a priest.

Old friends come by,
comrades radiant in laughter.
We’re caught in other people’s triumphs.
We dance away into shadows and memories.
Leaving and longing. Knowing,
Tiny angels pass this way at midnight.

© William-John Deerin

William-John Deerin is a member of Biggar Writers' Group. As well as writing he also paints.