Monday, 10 November 2014

Arriving at Monemvasia, 1992

Mel Pryor's poem below reminded me strongly of one of my own, written some time ago, and published in my pamphlet, Tiny Disturbances. This is a very slightly different version.


It was a moment plum rich with allusion,
with symbol - a full moon striping the wine-dark sea,
Dylan singing she might be in Tangier.
The rooms of Monemvasia, limpet fast
upon the rocks around us, soft light issuing,
were home as only home can be: safe, warm,
full, with a clever magic, of the familiar.
We came upon our friends, sitting, smiling,
terraced beneath the moon, above the sea,
a mild joint passing, sweet hash scenting
the already spiced night with the knowledge
of laughter to come.  A rug, cushions.

Comfort never to be known again, maybe,
because our lives soon would turn with children
and that good responsibility
consigns such innocent indulgence to youth
and we no longer incline to symbols.
Now, when the full moon stripes the wine-dark sea
It is not itself that moves us, but the memory.

Wynn Wheldon

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