Paska, Kalavarda, Rodos
for Katerina Papamikhail aged 7.


Where's the young goat, Katerina,
you fed with fresh herbs every day?
Its blood-smeared fleece hangs by the roadside,
its head is simmering away.

Do you think of death and suffering
as you chew its coiled insides?
A breeze of flowers and sea-wrack rises,
taps the door and stirs the light.

In the whitewashed fume-filled kirk and
on t.v. in every cafe
packed congregations chant and pray for
new life to rise from the dead.

With a grin you scrape the warm skull,
a little greedy. Up the hill
the village lads lurk with their bangers
to give us all a taste of hell.

Still hungry? Without a word I
give you this tongue that's lying in
my bowl.
Whatever we're fed to eat is holy
an offering that buys us time,
but with the red eggs and good wishes
I'll get by on bread and wine.