You laid 

upon pebbles inside her caves 

at Dafnoudi Beach 

to be crowned 

and give birth. 

Now, looking into the shine 

of your own eyes 

at your side, 

peering up in trust 

without lust, 

the pain is forgotten.

Welcome back to her shores 

with yours, 

her heirs. 

Thrust thy body into her arms. 

The children’s laughter echos 

off the moss covered walls 

that led

you to her bed. 

Watch them at the rippling edge

of her skirt.

Let them hold her tender, loving hands 

protecting each from the twisting winds 

to come again,

bask and play 

with their father home with the prey.

Open your lips 

and drink the rainfalls 

from above;

make love 

again in her nest. 

Rest 

your head in her bosom. 

Tip 

and 

nip 

at her feet in the shade of her white,

limestone cliffs. 

Repose upon her stones 

in view of her throne. 

Turn to see

the neighboring 

Lefkada lying 

among the 

purple islands in 

her turquoise sea. 

To be fare, 

I could not be aware 

of mine 

but to have gazed into thine? 

Nourish my soul with your essence 

of innocence.

Press your lips to mine 

until morning breaks. 

Allow me to lie down 

and hold your subtle shapes

sculpted by wind

swept hands

and stroke your breast 

to rest 

at the edge of your 

Ionian shores

with your loveliness pressed 

to my core. 

Your roar 

can be heard 

in the thickets of your raised spine, 

as in mine, 

and vibrates in the beetle’s whisper 

under your olive trees

in Lixouri

where oils pour

as golden as our mother’s rays 

and restores.  

The bay lay  

purple today 

rippled with sparkles 

faceted to reflect 

violet diamond rays. 

Ink flowed from his tip 

to write the words from his lips 

sign my name 

under the same 

on the balcony he had stood 

to witness, meet 

and greet. 

I, in Fiskardou square. 

He, high in the air, as sweet 

as an autumn breeze, 

met my morning 

to welcome the climb 

up the stairs 

to stare 

into unaware 

kindness,

no blindness,

sun kissed gold ends 

of deep, golden dark, strand 

hair. 

Thin hands 

held the stylo’s flow 

for his and mine

and back again. 

Hand to hand.

Man to man. 

Come in.