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]