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Tuesday 27 September 2011

A note from the Mediterranean

These waters are not our seas, nor these shores our sands
They hardly break, these waves and as for colour,
This blue-green blends a different composition,
Temperatures, these Turkish winter days, are hardly tropical
As of course one would expect.
There are other differences:
The mountains don't really roll down to the sea,
They drop
These elemental faces carved by the ancient,
'halt!' they tell the sea, 'rest awhile if you will,' they tell the sky.
No gold in these breaches, it's not fine the sand.
No shells, no crustacean crafting,
Such were reserved for other lands, other people perhaps.
Treasures now, such there are
And they speak to me,
Of legend and tragedy,
Dream and awakening,
Exploits and misadventure
And love,
Requited and lost;
Treasures made of stone,
Caressed by wind and water
Polished by time
And they come
In the colours of Mediterranean fruit,
A fermentation of heart-things,
wines spilling over,
blood drenched and sun worn.
They lie now
Baked in the brine of nostalgia
The vats in forgotten cellars
And secret caves
And I report,
I am unsettled by these histories
I am ignorant of
The men and women whose sweat I have not seen,
The territorial wrenching that gave birth to nations
The grasp and yield that re-drew maps;
Yes, unsettled as I watch these unfamiliar seas
And as I wait for a word, a glance,
A knowing about the unknowns
Associated with love,
With remembrance
And futures that will not, cannot be inhabited.


[from the collection 'Threads', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2007]

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