Waves,
red sail, boy fishing;
girl watching, hair brushed back
by the beach breeze, gusting
after
the poet's cap.
Waves sough the pebbles in
sequence; rock boy casts his
rod
of shadow and sun,
stiff, still, and hard pressed, glistening
brown sculpture, lithe as an
up-country
piscator
with a spear. Inland,
the coy lake leaks, cicadas
message
the shore's mosquitoes.
The stiff brush brush of the
poplars below the pass
spells
for donkey and scooter
shade on the way to the grave.
Waves of heat; daze of leaves:
the
leafy sails that are the
parasols of Corfu,
one for each voyager;
the
salmon pimpernel
and lemon butterfly,
await you at the oak.
As waves
reach for the beach,
so the cypresses go up
in pairs toward the peaks. Saints
at the rail receive girls
with infants at hip from the
back of the church. Straight, supple,
the
girls, hair brushed back, gaze fixed
on the Metropolitan,
except when one laughs or plays
with
a child's finger. The early
icon of the Virgin's one:
boy, poet, stop to look.
Bait
bikinis that fish
the beach at noon in high
season are nothing to this.
I, who
have sat below
the wall at Kaniaro;
climbed above the old harbour
at Kerkyra
the steep
Antivouniotissa steps;
looked down them on the blue
bay
framed by the door: I
speak what I know, having poked
Corfu with my umbrella
till
it is green and cicerone,
white above pools of marine
green, olive above white rocks.
I tell
you how it is,
seeing that sitting out
siesta here in the
shade
on a balcony,
I should know. 'Shade in which I
trusted, I can't mend your spokes.'