Summer holidays

Oct 10, 2010 by

 

The morning sun woke to the voices of the children.
Running echoes in white alleys, heading for the sea.
Pouring their bodies in, like a river of fresh happiness.
Their movements shaping drawings in blue.

And the sky with its new costume,
Greeting the old widows, heading for the cemetery.
Marching like an ancient chorus of a tragedy,
Black wrinkled images smelling of sainthood.
The priest opening the mouth of the church,
Releasing the smoke of the burnt out candles.
Their essence hurrying up,
a messenger of wishes trying to reach the creator.

And the earth waking at the steps of the early morning fishermen.
Heading to their boats, like lovers heading to mistresses.
And there, among the sweet shuffling of sandals in the market,
As the tables are laid outside the taverns, in a ceremonial preparation for the grasshopper’s song,
Innocent images of my brother and me
Sleep in our parents’ ever-soothing cradle.

 

Marianna Pliakou
Guernsey, October 2010

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