Where sunset copperplates the sea
With flecks of gold and Verdigris,
And down below, the ghosts of ships do battle in the bay.
Where in the morning, rising scents of sea salt and of sage
Drift up the hill on gifted wings to greet the kids that come of age
On dry stone walls in olive groves
Beneath the strident sun.
Sharp shadows cast by old scrub oaks
Where once young shepherds flung their cloaks,
Resist the timeless tug of war of brash Etesian winds.
Where goats\' bells bounce off whitewashed walls, with each staccato leap
And black-wrapped widows spin their webs to catch what precious dream-filled sleep
They might ‘neath watch of leaning, still
Centurions of stone.
To soothe the white heat of the sun
We dived and left our limbs undone,
In ocean coolness, born again - and flushed, we struck for shore.
With towels held high above our heads, we tiptoed onto land
And broke from canvas rare delights to share upon the sand.
The day we lunched on Ithaca
A thousand orbits turned.
Content, we hung in listless sleep
As painted ladies traced our shape
Until the lure of barefoot expeditions brought me round.
I picked my steps with casual ease, through shade of salt-dried driftwood trees
And swore I’d found the very glade where hung the Golden Fleece.
I turned to share my thrill with you,
But chose instead to spare your peace.
Soon after came the faithful sound
Of bells that haul the Earth around,
Each chime remarking loud and clear its moment’s fading grace.
And deep within you as you slept, inaudible at first
The beating of a second drum began to be rehearsed.
The day we lunched on Ithaca
Life’s liquor quenched our thirst.