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patmos
on the night of the huge full moon
no-one is dancing in the hilltop hightown
where the wind flies off to heaven and
streets deafened by the groaning gusts
wander crazily and cannot find their way out.
and so to the lowtown into which
the wind sails from the deeps
we walk through groves of gibbering pines
past boulders howling with the winds many mouths
down the steep mulepath set with stones
that split and snap like breaking crockery.
in the throat of a mountain cave
surrounded by wind-fevered leprous cypresses
icons of john the revelator
stare with moon-mad silver eyes
but there are no horsemen on the island
to sweep them up under blazing cloaks
and carry them dripping molten drops
over the bruised seas to the arab lands.
and in the port the sailors have stopped singing
yet still the bottles come and come and come;
the wind has stolen the scent of late blossoms -
a fragrance of salt flowers slips into the cafe.
a child with pale gleaming hair finds a dead rat
stiff in the street, its eyes sharp and glinting
as puddled moons - only the wind toys with it:
behind arch-pillars, low walls, rubbish bins,
the cats are cowering from the bristling light
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