That evening the sponge fishers took me home
tired and dusty,
all day spent in crossing mountains,
climbing down to bouldered beaches
on the far side of the island,
wearing sandals only,
not very used to it.
Three months they'd had of it in the open boats
dirty old caiques full of gear
puffing smoke rings in the air
machine gun echoes under cliffs
swirls of satin measuring sheltered coasts.
These sleep with Cyclops in the open caves
that gape like Chronos at the sun,
cook fish on rocks, pots blackened
smoke of brushwood fires, herbs
plucked by accident tinge the air
incense suddenly making cold flesh curiously warm.
Men of these islands are never old,
their grey heads are always questioning
seeking the heart of the traveller
ever making for Ithaca and the unknown home,
telling their stories of Turkish ports, coffee houses,
or some Muslim shrine in far off Libya
where they do not stand to pray
Here too the golden helmsman,
bronze bodied from the sea, hunter of fishes,
deep swimmer loved by Poseidon,
proud with the dark passion of arrogant eyes
that do not seek but recognise
first the companion and only later love.
Soon squid black the bays and inlets
sparks of phosphorescence fire the inky sea
throw back greetings at appearing stars,
deeper yet the hues on the mountains
their peaks with rocks still lambent
stand cicada beating out the day
I left them there at the foot of the cliff
and stumbled skywards up the track,
the fishermen below on steady earth
set fires awinking, voices fade
Over the mountain the night sky yawned
doming a silent sea.
1969-70. Revised 1992