Departures

Under the brooding mountains,
the salt pan at Larnaca burns at noon,
its seared skin drum for an August sun.
Between the crossings of dark paths shapes
scrape the sea’s bitter crop,
weary donkeys traipse under laden panniers.

The line of the mountains and sky merge
in the single coherence of a dazzling sea.
I wait my departure, delayed.
A carafe gathers light, dances and streaks
cusped and winged patterns of Cypriot sunlight,
onthe white cloth. Pegasus and Medusa bleed and die.

Lids melt into a drowse
the hum descends into a dream.
Here is only the long exhalation of forever
as the island breathes.
A book slips from a sleeper’s hand.
Fans slow stir of the thick air.

Strangers to each other, trapped,
we keep our space, locked-in selves
wait despatch to a world of donkey-tasks,
the chase of lives strapped to time,
ploddings over arid plains without horizons,
the daily toil of scraping life into dry heaps.

Chimes!
Heads lift. Buttocks shift.
A soft female voice intones in Greek.
Hope flutters from its empty box,
dozing children whimper in complaint,
forgotten toys, litter, crusts and crumbs lay strewn.
Burdens are shouldered and ways sought.

Arthur Seeley