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Tolon, Peloponnese
Not far out
in the bay
sits a dome shaped
islet. Just below
the sun, a cottage:
triangular, tiled roof,
a window, a door,
thin, pencil point
cypress at the side.
Sometimes I think
I could live there
all my days.
Mornings I open
the shutters and listen --
the birds, the waves
on the rocks, the wind.
Afternoons, I receive
visitors bringing cakes
and wine. We nibble
the cakes, sip the wine,
exchange a few words
and watch the sun set.
We empty the bottle.
I wrap the uneaten cake.
My visitors protest.
I insist. They climb
down the rocks to the
small, white boat.
I wave farewell.
In the evenings,
I light the oil lamp.
Slice my bread, cut
my cheese, wash
my grapes. I clean
the table, sweep
the floor, turn
out the light,
and wait.
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